I See A Darkness
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Working a case, Dean and Sam run into a problem, and they make the worse decision possible: they kidnap two members of the BAU. Between Fedsitting and hunting a killer who's collecting siblings, the boys aren't having their best day ever.
1. Teaser

**Story Warnings:** Later mentions of child abuse, murder, violence-basically everything you'd get from watching either of these shows.

**Story Summary:** Working a case, Dean and Sam run into a problem, and they make the worse decision possible: they kidnap two members of the BAU. Between Fedsitting and hunting a killer who's collecting siblings, the boys aren't having their best day ever. Gen.

**Story Setting:** Season 4 for both shows, though time doesn't exactly line up. After "Wishful Thinking" for SPN, after JJ returns for CM.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story). I am making no money off of this story. Written for fun only.

******Author's Notes: **Quick clarification, this story has Garcia in it, but it's not affiliated with my one-shot "The Oracle of Quantico."

* * *

**NOW**

Perhaps blasting Metallica wasn't the best choice at the moment. Dean recognized as much, but his fingers refused to pry from the steering wheel. Clicking out the tape would be admitting there was a problem, that this little ride was different from any of the ones before. And Dean wasn't in the mood for the inevitable silence.

Sam, however, was. He reached forward, breaking Metallicar rule _numero uno_. The cassette clicked out. For half a second, he tensed, ready to toss it over his shoulder in aggravation, but he thought better of it.

It probably wouldn't do to hit their backseat passengers with a flying object. Kidnapping was a bad enough charge without the added assault.

"So," Sam cleared his throat.

Nothing followed.

Dean could feel his brother's eyes on him, asking a silent question, and damned if he had an answer. This was his own fault, Dean knew that, but his little brother had went along with the move. And now they were both regretting the call.

Why the hell didn't they just run for it? Wasn't like Cupcake and the Scarecrow were going to catch up with the Impala before they got off the beaten path.

But running would have meant leaving the job behind. For the Feds to take care of. Two of which were currently nestled in the backseat wearing handcuffs - Dean had told Sam he hadn't picked those up just for kinky stuff - and silent as mute Church mice. The quiet part, that was unnerving in and of itself.

Dean's shoulders tightened when he saw headlights in the distance, beaming through the rain. He couldn't see the make of the car. Narrow green eyes darted up to the rearview mirror, watching their hostages. The kid, sad eyed and slouched, looked longingly at the oncoming vehicle but didn't make a move to alert the driver. Dean released an anxious breath when the car passed without slowing.

"Caleb's cabin?" Sam asked.

Dean jumped slightly, caught himself, and pretended it didn't happen. _Jesus. _He was wound tighter than a two dollar watch. Grunting, he nodded.

When they'd first arrived in town, they'd decided on the motel instead of the cabin for the simple reason that it had been a near decade since they'd last seen the old shack. Electricity, plumbing, those things were up in the air.

"Don't have much of a choice," Dean replied. "We're going to need somewhere secluded."

The woman behind Sam whimpered slightly. It was strained, as if she'd been trying to hold in the sound far too long. Dean took his eyes off the road for a split second.

"Calm down, Penelope," he said, flashing her what he hoped was a non-predatory smile. "You're gonna be just fine."

"It's not too late." Her voice was higher, pinched. A plum glossed lip quivered slightly. "You could just leave us here…You don't have to do -" She hesitated at the wording, looking desperately to the young man at her side, but the agent was unusually quiet, his brown eyes pleading. Penelope shook her head, the messy ball of blond at her crown bouncing with the movement. "You don't have to do whatever you're planning to do," she finished.

She looked defeated, knowing the words hadn't been enough. Sam was nearly turned in his seat, staring back at her with an apologetic half-smile on his face.

Dean watched the road. Even the desperation in the woman's voice was more welcoming than the quiet settled over the seat behind his. "Hey, kid," he called, not looking up. The agent had called himself something when Sam had asked… Dean's brow wrinkled when he recalled the title. "Got a name other than Dr. Reid?" Dean tried to put a smile in the question and failed. "Seems a little too formal for this situation."

Nearly a minute passed. Dean could practically hear the wheels turning in the young agent's mind. Finally, a reply came.

"Spencer."


	2. Chapter 1: Between the Devil

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. I am making no money off of these stories. Written for fun only. Also, I don't own Attalla, Alabama; it's a real place, but I'm fictionalizing it for my purposes.

**Author's Note: **This first chapter is set BEFORE the teaser-as confusing as that sounds, it'll make perfect sense once you start reading. By the way, the title of this story comes from Johnny Cash's song "I See a Darkness." The lyrics seemed to fit both universes, how the characters come to realize their own dark sides.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea**

* * *

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~_Antisthenes

* * *

_**THEN**_

Attalla, Alabama

Waiting and watching. He was always waiting and watching. That was his earliest memory. Standing behind a door, looking above the first set of rusted hinges, watching Daddy get piss drunk in the living room.

Fists pumped at his sides, anger built a fortress inside him. Ricky didn't like those memories. Not at all. No waiting. No more waiting.

Even on a Friday night, there were barely a dozen out for the midnight showing at the dusty two-plex, a relic of a time when Attalla promised to grow out of a shabby town and into a bigger, better city. That time had passed as soon as the steel factories had chose a better location, but The Dixie Theater remained. A crowd moved out of the front double doors, all teens, throwing leftover popcorn at each other. The air filled with them: giggles, curses, whines. _Sickening_.

One of these, one of these had to be right.

An icy breeze crawled over him, hesitating at his neck like a cold touch. But even it didn't stop the fresh sweat from pasting his blond hair to his forehead.

"Patience, little brother." A hand rose beside him, pale white in the darkness. A finger straighten, pointing out two of the girls who had separated from the others. "There she is. Did you send it yet?"

Ricky nodded, his southern drawl was more pronounced than his brother's. "Sure did."

"Then let's get a front row seat."

Ricky smiled.

The girls weren't laughing with the rest. Lily, _Lily was her name_, Ricky remembered. Lily had red hair cut below her ears and a sour expression on her face. _Severe. _Severe was the right word for her. And she was older than most the others, right out of her teens but still dressed in the same high school wardrobe.

"Have you spoken to Galvin since you got home?" the other girl asked.

Lily snorted. "Nicky," she groaned. "You know, as soon as he calls and apologizes for stealing from me, I'll talk to him. Until then…"

"It was twenty bucks two months ago," Nicky smiled. "Does he even know you're in town?"

"A _stolen _twenty bucks, and we've gone longer than two months without talking." Lily shook her head, bitter. Her eyes were downcast, focused on digging her phone out of her purse. "And of course he knows I'm here. He knows I only spend every other weekend at the college."

"He's your brother."

Lily came to a stop, shaking her head. "And you're an only child, Nicky. Come to me when you have a pain in the ass sharing DNA with you." The phone in her hands chirped, and she glanced down with a frown. "Speak of the devil…"

Nicky smirked, taking a step back when she saw the other teens piling into their cars. "Well, my ride's headed out. Call you."

Lily nodded, not acknowledging the girl's goodbye as she fumbled with the phone. Her feet had a mind of their own, leading her to the side of her own car, away from the rest.

_Separate from the herd. _Ricky didn't like to wait, but he was getting more and more excited about the watching part.

Lily didn't see him crouched low against the hedges. Couldn't know he was there. And yet her eyes widened with horror. Fingers shaking, she held the screen of her phone closer to her face.

"_Galvin_," she whispered. Her free hand came up, holding her lips closed to stop whatever else was about to leave her mouth. "Oh God," still managed to escape. "_Oh God, Galvin. . ." _

Her fingers went to work, fumbling for the 9. Then 1. Another. She didn't make it to send when the phone went dead, its power drained without warning. Confusion crossed her face the moment she looked up. It didn't register at first. Ricky could tell, she didn't understand what had just happened.

And she certainly didn't understand how the man standing in front of her had approached without her noticing. But the expression changed in an instant to one of pure terror. Lily didn't have time to scream.

Ricky stood from his crouch, watching his brother with pride. Some days, it was good to be the one watching.

"Worth the wait," he muttered, grinning.

* * *

Penelope Garcia had come to one conclusion about this particular Sunday afternoon: it sucked. Sure, being called into work because mutilated bodies were discovered was never a good thing, but Penelope had expected it to, at the very least, be business as usual. No such luck. Her lovelies had just returned from one trying case, ready to go home and unpack when J.J. had stopped them with that this-is-a-bad-one look in her eyes. So Penelope had found herself an energy drink and went to the briefing with the full intention of helping the team in any way possible. She hadn't realized that "any way possible" meant getting on the jet and traveling south with them.

"What is it with crazies and videotapes?" she asked, knowing each of the profilers would be quick to give her an answer she already knew. Thankfully none of them were around to do so. God love them, but she didn't always care to travel into a murder's sick mind.

Penelope stepped out of the motel room, wincing when she put weight on her left side. As if two case assignments in a forty-eight-hour period and a trip to the middle of nowhere wasn't bad enough, she'd twisted her ankle walking up the steps to the sheriff's station at the center of town.

Not that she was going to tell the others that she'd actually managed to injure herself within half an hour of arriving.

Thankfully, Hotch had sent her and Reid to check in at the motel. "Before they give away our rooms" had been his exact words, but Garcia, judging from the two cars and a motorcycle parted in front of the ground level building, somehow doubted there would be any chance of that actually happening. Thinking of the youngest G-man, she glanced the window shades to the next room over. They'd been closed already. No doubt, Dr. Reid was actually taking advantage of the few hours of sleep he was going to get before the others arrived from visiting the parents of the last victims.

Tucking the ice bucket and a clear plastic bag under her arm, she moved down the line of doors, eyes searching for the vending area. _If _this motel actual had one. Not that she was a hospitalities snob, but this place was no where near one-star. Flower themed rooms that looked as if they were decorated in the late seventies, the constant scent of mildew and cigarettes… It had took all of her willpower not to gag when she stepped over the used condom laying across the sidewalk like an abandoned banana peel.

"No, not recommending the Emperor's Inn," she muttered.

The sign for ICE was positioned at the end of the building. _Lovely, more walking. _Penelope hobbled toward it, listing in her head all the things she could possibly be doing with her evening that didn't involve a very cheap hotel and a data file of videos and pictures starring torture victims. It was somewhat disappointing how short that list actually was, though. She and Kevin had been playing the "I'm mad at you but not willing to talk about it" game for the past two weeks and most of her social calendar involved the other agents who would still be stuck in this town, hunting down a murderer, with or without her.

"Well, sigh," Penelope commented, turning the corner. Her brow shot up. "Or not."

Because, just when she thought the evening would only get better after a hot shower and a few hours on a lumpy mattress, low and behold a delicious backside in denim.

The legs beneath said-backside shifted, as if realizing they had an audience and wanting to show off. After a second, a man pulled his upper torso free from inside the ice box, dragging an overfilled bucket up with him. He dumped the contents into a cooler sitting at his feet before looking up. The white panty-dropper smile he flashed turned Penelope's brain to mush.

"Why, hello there," he said in a husky voice. And the smile didn't lift when his roaming eyes took her in within the length of one gulp.

Penelope resisted the urge to look down and check what she was wearing. Apparently, the pink sundress and sweater combination was enough to keep a guy's interest. Or maybe it was just the low-cut top. Yup. That was probably it. Because Penelope refused to believe a guy that…well, _built, _could be genuinely interested past a second glance.

She blinked dumbly at his bent over form before finally flashing her own grin. "Hello yourself," she returned.

His lips twitched, amused by the delayed response. "Well, sweetheart, I hope you're not looking to cool down any time soon."

_You little flirt, you. _Garcia raised a brow at the statement, letting her mouth drop open slightly.

He straightened up, stretching out his broad shoulders and resting one elbow on the top of the machine. With a little wink, he added, "Cause the machine's on the fritz. Barely a bucketful left inside. But I suppose I could share."

"Oh, I wasn't that interested in ice anyhow." Garcia shrugged, letting her eyes drop on the ice-dampened front of his black t-shirt. "Mainly came to see the sights."

He coughed down the response that had been brewing, thrown off. When his green eyes found her steady smile again, though, they widened slightly. His expression was one she recognized often, though usually she was only on the receiving end when solving an especially complicated computer problem. Hot Flirty Stranger was impressed.

_Bad, Penelope, bad_, she chided, but sauntered forward. Well, would have sauntered forward if her ankle hadn't chosen that moment to send a shock of pain up her leg. She winced, stumbling instead.

A thick arm caught her around the waist, holding her steady, "I usually have a first name before I get this close to a woman."

Penelope snorted. _Fat chance_. But let him guide her toward a rickety looking aluminum chair unfolded beside the machine. He kicked the ash tray beside it out of her way and gently lowered her down. His fingers snatched her bag away before she had a chance to ask.

"I'm Dean," he said, scraping together a couple handfuls of ice.

Deciding to play along, "Penelope."

Dean twisted the top of the bag and bent down to one knee. "You need to elevate this, Penelope," he replied. Before she could stop him, his fingers were lifting the heel of her shoe. He carefully pushed the ice against her foot. "How's that feel? Better?"

Penelope hissed through her teeth, but the throb in her ankle was quickly numbing. She nodded along, a blissful curl to her lips. She cocked her head, looking down at the man knelt in front of her like a regular prince in torn denim. A slight sigh of regret left her mouth.

"Where were you a year ago?" she mused, painfully aware that she now had a boyfriend. A real one, not a digital one, who was back home, waiting for her.

Dean chuckled, but it was stiffer than before. "Running from Hell," he replied, smirking, "and look at that, I found Heaven. How about you and me get a drink, Penny?"

_Oh, pumpkin, I wish_. Penelope frowned, an apology at her wrinkled brow. There was absolutely no way she was going on a date with a too-attractive-for-words stranger. She'd been down that path. At the end of it there was a handgun and an unattractive scar. The memory made the ice's deep touch seem all the more chilling.

"Or maybe another time," Dean said, letting her off the hook.

Penelope nodded, thankful, and knowing that his "another time" meant the same as hers: never.

"Garcia? You weren't in your room..."

Spencer rounded the corner, coming to a quick stop when he took in the scene.

Penelope's eyes shot from one man to the other, blood rising to her cheeks just as quickly. She chided herself: just a stranger touching her leg, nothing to feel guilty about here, no sir-ree.

"Nope, pudding-cakes, I was out here."

But Penelope's happy expression dropped when she noticed Reid take an automatic step back, his eye's wide. He quickly shook his head, clearing his throat. "Um, sorry to interrupt," he coughed, "Hotch called. With, um, an update. We should," he took an unsteady breath, "we should head back to the room and call him back."

Penelope shook her head, confused, and it grew tenfold when she turned to give her goodbyes to her new acquaintance. Dean's focus was no longer on her, though the ice was still pressed firmly on her ankle. His eyes had narrowed slightly, brow dropped, body angled toward the agent.

"Dean?" She laughed, nervous, but he didn't seem to hear her. "Dr. Reid? Hello? Did I miss something?"

* * *

The moment he'd spotted her checking him out, Dean knew she wasn't the type who'd come back to the room with him. She had "sweetheart" written all over her colorfully accented face. And, if he was honest with himself, that made it a touch easier to play the flirt. But before he'd even noted that she was cute as a button, she'd pulled out her own cards.

_Frisky. Damn. _Which kinda made Dean wish she was _that_ kind of girl. And Penelope… he didn't have any Penelopes listed on his phone yet. He'd held down his sigh with a fresh smile. Another place, another time. He was resigned to their fate.

And then the kid had stepped in.

"Garcia? You weren't in your room..."

Didn't take an expert to spot the gun openly displayed on the young man's belt. And, even without the accompanying badge, that sent one clear message: law enforcement. Dean stopped himself from reacting automatically. He'd run into plenty of police officers in the past without being recognized, especially of late. This guy didn't quite rub him as a cop, though, more of the mathletes type. He'd almost forgotten that the _real_ Feds were supposed to be arriving in town.

Still, even most Feds didn't keep up with twice-dead criminals. Except for maybe this one.

The agent tried to stop himself from reacting. But the expression on his face was one Dean recognized - like he'd seen a ghost. Which, hey, Dean was supposed to be dead. So, understandable.

Dean's gaze narrowed, waiting for him to make a move.

"We should head back to the room and call Hotch back," the agent finished.

_Props, kid. Get the girl out of the way first. _Dean had to give him that. Still, Penelope didn't budge, and Dean knew that the kid had realized his own reaction had not went unnoticed.

Slender, twitching fingers made their way closer to the belt holster.

Dean couldn't help the slight frown on his face when the kid's eyes widened in horror. No doubt a presence in the shape of a gun barrel was making itself known to the agent's spine. Sam was getting good at scaring the shit out of people. And, apparently, sneaking up behind Feds.

Dean watched his little brother close the distance between himself and the agent's back. The kid's hand was still hovering over his own piece.

"Not a good idea," Sam warned him, and shot his brother an angry glance that clearly said, "I'm blaming you for this one."

* * *

Six murders in five weeks. When the sheriff had first called the team, there had only been four dead. The last two bodies had been found mere hours before the BAU's plane had landed.

Agent Hotchner ran his fingers under his chin, studying the board with more energy than he should have had left after the past week. He was going to put it to good work, if at all possible.

Without realizing it, he glanced up, hearing J.J.'s voice, but she was a room away, on the phone with the local news station, trying to keep out details that had managed to make their way out after the last murders. It would be hard to keep a handle on the torture aspect, though. It always was. Hotch didn't envy her job.

With Morgan at the dump site with a crime scene team, taking advantage of the last few rays of daylight, Hotch had sent Rossi with Prentiss to speak with the parents of the second pair of victims. He, himself, had already spoken with the parents of Galvin and Lily Marks - they'd just left the station, still shaking with rage and tears. It had been too soon for them.

It would always be too soon.

Hotch turned back to the photographs. The ages differentiated, as did the gender, but there was one clear, undeniable tie between all of them. They were siblings. The Unsub was tormenting and killing off siblings in pairs, starting each cycle by abducting the youngest out of the two.

Between the torture and the video-taping, he'd been inclined to suspect sexual sadism, but it seemed the images weren't intended as a means to relive the act, but, instead, made purely for the sake of instilling fear in the second victim of each pair. The older sibling, forced to see the younger in pain. There was a statement to be made here.

"You ever seen anything like this before?"

Hotch glanced over his shoulder. Sheriff Jesse McKinney was standing a few feet away, distancing himself from the FBI's workspace. The man was surprisingly young and looked the part of a short, kind-faced deputy, but judging by how Hotch had seen him interact with his men, he was well regarded in the community and respected as a figure of authority. Sheriff McKinney ran a hand over his short black hair, his olive-tone skin washed of color by the white lighting above.

"I mean, like the tapes, the pictures. Killers sharing their…work like this," the Sheriff finished. "Does that happen often?"

Hotch nodded, the Hankel case coming to mind immediately. But, in truth, they were no where near the same. The Unsub was sending a message, sure, but not to the world as a whole. He didn't care about the world.

"A case in Florida," he finally replied. "The Unsubs were sending video tapes to parents of the victims being tortured and raped."

Jesse swallowed. "That's what you meant at the preliminary profile your team gave." The profile had been quick but efficient: male, white, still youthful in his experimental methods, mid-twenties to early thirties. And then there was the sibling connection to consider. There was a history there, a violent one. "About him focusing on the eldest?"

The Unsub wasn't sending parents any word of their children's whereabouts. In the first case, an envelope of pictures had been sent to the victim's brother right before the man himself was abducted. The police had only found out after the bodies were discovered and the residence searched. In the second pair, it had been a recorded DVD. And the third, Lily Marks, had received a video clip on her phone mere moments before police found her car with its door open, phone and purse abandoned on the pavement.

The Unsub was learning, his skills advancing quickly. Hotch was glad he'd decided to bring Garcia on this one. If there were any breadcrumbs to be followed on the phone message, she'd find them, but, more importantly, if they found the Unsub's home and not his latest victims, she would be invaluable in going through his workstation.

But not tonight. Hotch had sent her to the motel with Reid before sundown - neither of them had gotten much rest after the last case. They had one night, that much all of them were sure of. The Unsub might have been progressing, a smaller window between each pair, but he would still need time to find the next perfect pair. Two siblings who fit his needs.

The team had one night. Hotch was certain, though, that they wouldn't have two.

* * *

It had started to rain somewhere between entering the Hamilton home and exiting it. Emily Prentiss's eyes drifted up to the ominous clouds, and she knew the storm was just beginning. It had been too mild for winter when they'd arrived, but it appeared their luck with the weather would be soon be changing. She took a quick step down the stairs to the sidewalk, falling into place beside Agent Rossi, squinting through the raindrops.

Their feet splashed through the puddles as they slipped into the black sedan parked against the curb.

Agent Prentiss took a breath, wiping the water off her face before turning to Rossi. Her lips formed a tight line when she saw him shaking his head. "Want me to make the call?" she offered.

Rossi's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "You mean about our Agent _Fogerty_?"

"Too bad he doesn't exist." Prentiss had already pulled her phone free. She released a breath when her boss picked up. "Hotch, we've got a problem. The Hamilton family claims a man was here this morning, asking them questions about the case. He told them he was an F.B.I. agent."

She shot Rossi a quick glance when he snorted, half amused, half annoyed. "Agent Tom Fogerty… Wasn't that the rhythm guitarist for Creedence Clearwater Revival?"


	3. Chapter 2: Two in the Hand

******Disclaimer**: I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story). I am making no money off of this story. Written for fun only.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**Two in the Hand**

* * *

Dean leaned down, staring at his reflection in the wood framed television as if expecting something to jump out of the curved glass. He reached out, turning the knob, and a tunnel of light flashed across the screen, bringing it to life. His face lit up almost as quickly.

"Hey, check it out, Sammy," he called, "tube works."

Sam hummed a response, stepping around the sparsely furnished cabin. A single full-sized bed, extra cot folded against the wall, small sofa, breakfast table… He reached the kitchenette and tried the water. It gushed forward, surprisingly clear.

"Someone's been staying here. Often." Sam looked up, darkly, letting those words sink in for Dean.

Big brother only shook his head. "Not here now, though," he commented. "And hopefully we won't be here long enough to see who's taken over the place."

Because they weren't exactly on speaking terms with a good chunk of the hunting population of late. And with Caleb unable to vouch for them from beyond the grave, meeting up with whoever had taken to keeping the cabin kept up might not be pleasant. Dean took a step back, sitting on the edge of the bed. It creaked with his weight, and he grinned, despite himself.

It was probably the same mattress he'd jumped on in their last stay, when he was chasing Sammy across the room. They'd been kids then, and it was one of the rare times when their dad was actually staying in town to take care of a job instead of dropping them off at a motel. Caleb hadn't minded them staying on the property, so long as the pantry and toiletries were restocked - if memory served, Caleb, a fan of arms deals, had mostly done work of the none hunting variety from the tiny cabin. Hell, Dean and Sam hadn't even known Caleb very well back then. He was just another name.

"Damn long time ago," Dean muttered with the thought. Longer still after how he'd spent his summer vacation. He held down the shutter that came with that realization.

Sam was staring his way, but to Dean's surprise, there was no deep chick-flick meaning to the look. He was simply avoiding looking at the opposite wall, where their two guests were currently secured to two table chairs. Dean didn't blame him. Neither of the brothers needed to voice how deep shit creek had gotten over the past hour.

"Dean." Sam let out a breath. "Dean, maybe we should drop this case."

"Think we kinda made a commitment here, Sam." Dean gestured to Penelope in particular. He cocked his head. "Unless you're just trying to get out of this because you think…"

"That we have bigger and badder concerns?" Sam scoffed. "Yeah, Dean. Actually, that's exactly it."

Dean shook his head, standing. "Bigger and badder than saving lives?"

"This morning, you were complaining that you didn't think this was our kind of case, Dean. And nothing at the Hamilton's really changed any of that." Sam hesitated, "Is there something you're seeing that I'm not? Some special reason for taking this one?"

"What, so suddenly an EMF reading is worth writing off? Bo - " Dean paused, glancing the Feds and deciding that not using Bobby Singer's real name was probably a good idea, "We wouldn't have been given this case if there wasn't something to it. And, you know as well as I do that the earlier murders showed a lot of the usual signs."

Dean saw it out of the corner of his eye, the sight movement against the wall.

It looked as if Dr. Reid had found his comment interesting. When the agent realized he had their attention, he shifted forward, as much as the rope around his chest would allow.

Dean jerked his thumb in his direction. "See, they don't even know about the earlier ones yet, Sam. We're ahead of them on this."

"Dean." The voice was so foreign that Dean almost didn't recognize it. His eyes shot to Spencer just as the younger man opened his mouth to speak again. "Dean, your brother is right." He chewed his lip for a split second before continuing, his wording careful. "You can leave this case to us. We can handle it - _let_ us handle it. There's nothing here for you to hunt."

Dean blinked, confused for a moment before he realized what "good cop" here was getting at. _The play-along game. Great. _He took a step toward the agent, but Sam reached a hand out to block him. Dean shrugged it off.

"Alright then, Spencer, I suppose we should just pack up, hit the road and drop you two off in front of the police station with a letter of apology?" Dean smirked, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Sorry, Kid, not gonna happen." He took a breath, leaning forward. "And for your information, no you cannot _handle it_. The last FBI agent who thought he could ended up going down bloody, so forgive me if I'm not all that willing to leave it in your capable hands."

Wide, brown, guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes stared up at him. _Damn. _Dean wondered if Sam even realized that other humans possessed that same super-powered gaze. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say the agent was waiting for a blow. Which made Dean feel a little worse. The hunter straightened, softening his expression slightly, and clearing his throat.

"You two just sit tight and let us get this thing done. It'll be over before you can recite your handbook."

He turned his gaze to Penelope. The woman's face had paled, making her heavy eyeliner and near-purple lipstick stand out. Judging from the tremble of her chin, she was very close to shedding a few tears. _Shit. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to mention a dead agent. _Somehow, two grown adults were making him feel like he'd just kicked a little girl's puppy. It wasn't exactly a _good_ feeling. He opened his mouth, ready to warn them that gags were in their future if Dr. Reid gave any more suggestions, and gave up before the words left his mouth.

Dean sighed, throwing his arms in the air in surrender and turned his back the hostages in defeat. "You know what, Sammy, next time, you give 'the talk'."

Sam was hiding his grin with one hand. The humor drifted, his brow wrinkling in its place, as if an idea had just struck him. "Penelope?" he asked. "What exactly do you do for the FBI?"

She gathered her courage, taking a shaky breath. "I'm a computer technician for the BAU."

Dean looked over one shoulder. "What's the BAU?"

Sam stepped forward before she could answer, a little too quick in his reply. "Behavioral Analysis Unit. They're criminal profilers."

"Ah, Sammy, I'd forgotten about your little FBI phase - kept trying to convince Dad he was chasing a serial killer. Was that before or after you decided you wanted to be a magician?"

Sam glared at him a split second before pushing the warning home. "Dean-" an unspoken '_did you hear me, dude?' _between one word and the next, "-profilers."

Dean shook his head, somehow managing to sound nonchalant. "Day just gets better and better. Step out for ice, end up with Computer Hacker Barbie and Clarice Starling. Wonderful."

Penelope's scoff was so low, he barely heard it. "_Barbie?" _

* * *

The night was brightened by the gray clouds looming above, holding back the heavy rain for a few moments. Already, though, a light mist was falling once more. Beggars couldn't be choosers, though; Derek was simply happy the downpour that had arrived while he was finishing up at the dumpsite was on temporary leave.

He hid the phone with his free hand, boots splashing through the puddles before he found sanctuary beneath the overhanging in front of the motel. One wide palm swiped the dampness off his dark brow, his near-smooth head, before he gave his attention back to the conversation.

"Nope, Hotch. Like I said, nothing different than the previous dumps, accept for the location. Forested area, right off a main highway. High ravine against the road." Derek paused, shaking his head. "What gets me is that no one has seen this guy in action. Unloading one body is hard enough, but two? And without a single shoe print? Something's not adding up."

Lifting his chin, he read the room number off the closest door, walking toward it with a wide stride. The hum of Hotchner's voice could barely be heard over the rolling clouds above. "Yeah, well, be careful on the roads. Got a feeling the storm's not over yet."

Room 36 came into view. Derek closed his phone with a snap and pocketed it. He raked his knuckles over the blue door, listening for movement inside. "Hey, baby girl, it's Derek," he called.

No reply.

He rolled his eyes, a small grin at one corner of his mouth. If Garcia was on the same wavelength as him, she was probably hitting the showers right about now. He hoped she'd had the foresight to hand the other room keys off to Reid first, or the rest of the team was going to have a hell of a time getting into their rooms.

Derek took another step down. A sliver of light was spilling out between the mostly-closed curtains of Reid's room. Another tap. The agent hesitated before knocking harder.

Nothing.

"Damn," he muttered, turning back to face the parking lot. A split second later he remembered that Garcia and Reid had left the rest of the team with the rentals, getting a ride to the motel from Deputy Barnel.

That ruled out them hitting the town, not that he suspected either of them were in the mood to do anything more than sleep. Or that Attalla had anything to offer past sunset.

The manager's office was still open. Good. Maybe they were in the small lobby. At the very least, the manager might be able to get him another key.

Still, Derek didn't make a move toward the office. Something about this felt off. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at Garcia's door, a frown on his face. _What if…? _Derek shook his head, stopping the paranoia before it could dig its claws deeper. _Check the office first, then worry, _he told himself. Nevertheless, his hands dug back into his pocket, pulling free the cell phone.

Garcia's was the number he dialed most, so he pressed call without thinking. His steps toward the office were slow, deliberate, as if they were timed with each ring. Chewing his bottom lip, he waited for the voice message telling him to "bestow the keeper of all knowledge" his "offerings." Even that wasn't enough to loosen the hard frown on his face.

"Garcia, I'm at the motel." He hesitated, resisting the panicked question at the tip of his tongue. "Call me," he finished, instead, ending the call.

Reid's number was next.

_Ring. _

Morgan was nearly at the end of the building, the office separated from the long wing of the L-shaped motel.

_Ring. _

His brow wrinkled when he heard an echo of the ring in the distance. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he turned a full circle, eyes searching the barely lit parking lot. The rain was falling again, throwing the sound in every direction. It took him a moment to focus, to hear it again, to figure out where it was coming from. When he did, he realized his back was to it.

Derek came to a dead stop, staring at the small breezeway separating the front half of the building from the back. A vending machine that looked as if it hadn't been restocked in a decade, a Coke machine, and to the opposite side, a blue and white ice box. A plastic bucket had been abandoned on the wet sidewalk below, mostly melted chips floating in a tied-off plastic bag beside it.

And the ringing had stopped. Not before Derek had heard where its muted tone was coming from: the box itself.

Derek knew why the hairs on the back of his neck were standing, and he wished to God they'd end their salute. He had enough scenarios going through his head without his subconscious throwing up red flags. He licked his lip, reaching out. His distorted reflection stared back at him from the pitted silver doors of the box.

"No," he whispered, without meaning to.

No to _those _thoughts. About what could be past those doors. What was waiting. Why two of the people he was most protective of in this world weren't answering their phones. No. Plain and simply put, _No_.

His fingers latched on to the pull. One yank and it slid open. The contents were shadowed, Derek's body blocking the bright light above him. But he see clearly enough. No bodies. No blood.

Derek pushed a painful breath from his chest, but those pesky hairs were still standing on his neck. At the corner of the box, abandoned on the last bit of remaining ice, were two cell phones. He didn't need to pick them up to know who they belonged to. He caught his mouth with one hand, pinching his lips with his fingers. Thoughts flooded him, but only one formulated well enough for him to take action. He lifted his own phone again, waiting for an answer.

By, God, there better be an answer. If their wasn't, he'd…

"_Morgan?" _

"Hotch," Derek breathed, pushing the emotion down. "I think we've got a problem."

"_Morgan, what's wrong?" _

There was an urgency in Hotch's voice that Derek wanted to rebuke. After all, he wasn't sure. Not yet. Couldn't be, not until he checked their rooms. Was absolutely certain that…that they were gone.

"Hotch, I'm still at the motel, but Garcia and Reid…" Derek's eyes had drifted downward, following the spill of water from the broken-down ice machine. His feet had a mind of their own, taking him to the backside of the motel, where another line of rooms waited, no cars parked in front of them. But there, on the sidewalk a few rooms down from the vending area, was a single feather.

"_Morgan, are you still there? What's happening?"_

Derek took to one knee, reaching down for it. He rolled it between two fingers, vaguely aware of Hotch's voice in his ear. It was sunflower yellow. Short as his little finger. Fuzzy. Just like the ones on Penelope's hair barrette.

"_Has something happened to Garcia and Reid? Morgan, talk to me." _

Derek's voice was distant when it finally returned. "Hotch, they're missing," he said, as calmly as he could manage. His body grew rigid, nearly shaking. "Hotch, you need to get here before I start kicking in doors."

And he closed the phone with a snap.

* * *

For all the training, for all the profiling, there was no sure-fire way of dealing with two people as delusional as the Winchesters. Especially when his hands were tied, literally, his gun taken, his friend in danger. But, Spencer remembered what Gideon had taught him: the profile, that was his real weapon. The only one he currently had at his disposal.

Spencer really wished this was his first time in this situation. That the terror crawling over his skin like spider legs was completely new to him. But it wasn't, not in the least.

Without meaning to, he found himself staring at Penelope. If the brothers would just leave the room, the both of them, for just a moment, he could tell her that she'd be alright. That he'd get her out of this, somehow. Because that's what someone like Morgan would say. What he wouldn't tell her, of course, were the details of the Winchesters' files. What they had, what Dean Winchester had, reportedly done to those women in St. Louis.

Spencer watched the younger brother, Sam, scoot forward from his makeshift seat on the cooler, holding the water bottle's straw closer to Garcia's mouth. She arched her neck, taking a hesitating sip before pulling away from him again. Sam was distracted, though, glancing over his shoulder, watching his brother lay the laptop and notes out on the small breakfast table, scooting a floor lamp closer to the work area. The cabin itself wasn't very well lit, especially now that night was fully upon them, but there was enough light to see by.

Spencer shared a glance with Penelope, hoping that she'd understand. Her lips opened again, and she let her eyes trail Sam's face.

"Thank you."

Sam startled, haven forgotten the bottle in his hand. He lowered it, sitting it down on the floor beside her chair.

Spencer caught Penelope's eye again, nodding slightly. Sam. Sam was the one they needed to concentrate on.

"For the drink," Penelope added, biting her lip slightly.

"Um," Sam gave her an awkward smile, "yeah, you're welcome." And then glanced up to see Spencer staring him down. "How about you? We've got some more water, beer…might even have a bottle of apple juice left." He was already standing again, ready to pop the cooler's lid open, when Reid shook his head.

"No, thanks," he said, swallowing.

Sam nodded, standing in place. After a moment, he sunk back to the edge of the cooler, propping his elbows on his long legs and leaning forward. His dark eyes glanced up for a moment, silently calling his brother's attention, but he turned his focus back on Reid a split second later.

"Back at the motel," Sam began, "you recognized Dean."

Spencer noticed how innocently Sam had managed to not make that into a question, giving him no room to claim otherwise. Spencer's fingers fidgeted above his legs. He nodded, his adam's apple bouncing in tune with the movement.

"Yes," he said. "He was on the Most Wanted list. All FBI agents are required to know the names of those individuals."

"Was," Dean chirped, coming up beside the agent. "_Was_ on the Most Wanted. Kinda strange, though, you taking one glance at me and recognizing my face alone. Especially since I'm dead, according to you guys."

"You've died twice now," Spencer supplied.

As much as he knew he should be concentrating on the situation at hand, he couldn't help but let his mind flip through that information, digest it further. How had the Winchesters escaped alive? How had Dean faked his deaths, especially the one in St. Louis? There'd been coroner pictures of the body of the man standing in front of him. And, _why? _Why fake your death so elaborately if you're not going to stay under the radar?

Dean's gaze narrowed slightly at the reply, more questions behind those hazel eyes. Spencer could see the paranoia there. He realized too late that he should have kept his mouth shut. If the brothers thought he was too suspicious, if they turned him into a villain in whatever current fantasy they were playing out, he'd be endangering himself and Penelope even further.

Spencer caught those piercing eyes again. "I have an eidetic memory," he continued. The explanation wasn't enough, he knew. He needed to make himself accessible, make the brothers believe he could be convinced of the truth behind their delusions. Playing along was the safest course of action at the moment. It might be enough to buy the team time… _Time for what? _To find their two _dead_ abductors?

No, he had to have more confidence in his team. They'd found him in the past. They'd do it again.

"I read through your file a few years ago for a Special Agent named Victor Henricksen." Spencer watched for the spark of recognition in Dean's eye and wasn't disappointed. "Agent Henricksen was obsessed with your case after the incident in St. Louis and called me several times to look over his profile." Reid paused, weighing his options, and deciding to take the chance. One of the things Henricksen had insisted on was that the oldest had quite the ego - Reid could work with that. "I told him that I doubted he'd be able to track down you and your brother. You'd lost him before, and you'd do it again. Judging from what I've read, you're very skilled at what you do. It's impressive."

Dean snorted at that, breaking eye contact. "What exactly do you think we _do_?" he asked, his voice low.

Spencer stilled. He'd been expecting some sort of confirmation of vanity, over-confidence, arrogance. Instead, Dean's physical reaction, aversion, had almost been self-deprecating. "I know what Agent Henricksen thought you did. But he was wrong about you." Spencer straightened, leaning closer. "He thought you were just killing people, but there was more to it than that, right, Dean?"

"Listen." Dean took a breath, his eyes finally drifting up from the floor enough to meet the other man's gaze. "If this is the part where you start bad-mouthing Henricksen because you think it's what I want to hear, you can just stop where you are. Victor was a good guy. He made assumptions that any sane person would, and, yeah, he was wrong. But he was a _good _man."

Spencer blinked, trying to hide his surprise. The reaction told him enough: at some point, Agent Henricksen had become part of Dean's delusions, but not as a monster. "Is he the agent who…died bloody?"

Aversion, again. Spencer felt the conversation slipping from his grasp.

Dean's brow wrinkled as he studied his own hands. "Yeah," he said, and stepped away, as if the notes he'd left on the table had suddenly become more interesting.

Spencer could feel Sam's eyes on him, glaring a hole through his skin. When he met the youngest Winchester's gaze, he was surprised at the anger there, restrained but present.

"Just because you read a file on us, doesn't mean you know us," Sam bit, standing. His looming height was unnerving, but whatever had been in his eyes disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. "If you change you mind about that drink, let me know."

He stepped away, joining his brother over a stack of papers. Reid and Garcia's eyes trailed him. Spencer released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The profile was his best weapon. Unfortunately, it looked like it was no where near complete.

Penelope shook her head slightly at Spencer, obviously unnerved by the exchange. Reid had to remind himself that she didn't know the details. Didn't know what it was the Winchesters believed.

"That went well," she whispered.

Spencer echoed the sentiment.

* * *

The motel hadn't put money into new lighting in at least a decade, and yet it was, currently, standing out as a beacon in the night. Car lights, spotlights on the scene, flashlights: it was as bright as midday in the parking lot at the back of the building.

"Looks like half the town's here," Emily said, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Derek only nodded. He'd been a whirlwind for the past hour, but, finally, her words seemed to bring him to a stop. Dark eyes narrowed as the man studied the faces crowding the area, as if he'd noticed he wasn't alone in his search for the first time. He didn't speak, letting the moment of hesitation wash over him as quickly as it had arrived.

Emily frowned, knowing he was about to move again. She couldn't blame him for not being able to stand still, even if her own betraying legs currently felt like they were filled with lead instead of blood.

"Morgan," she began.

The sentiment at her lips didn't finish forming. Hotch and Rossi were approaching from the from vending area, their faces set. From their expressions alone, she knew they hadn't found anything they could use. Nevertheless, Morgan moved forward, his hard-muscled mass almost threatening in the quick movement.

"Hotch, were all the guests accounted for? Were the police able to locate them?"

Rossi raised his brow slightly, sharing a look with Emily. She wasn't the only one who had noticed how wired Morgan was, his voice high, clipped. Aggressive, even if that aggression wasn't aimed toward the team.

Hotch's expression was stony; the constant leader. "Sheriff McKinney's men located the man staying in room ten at the local diner. The family from room thirty-seven arrived back just a few minutes ago. Two individuals, however, are missing. The hotel manager says they paid in cash for two evenings, but it looks as if they've already moved out of the room."

The light caught Derek's eyes, brightening them. "Names? Descriptions?"

The rapid-fire questions were almost barked out. Hotch didn't comment, though, turning the floor over to Rossi. The older agent nodded once in the direction of the rooms. One door was wide open, Sheriff McKinney standing at the frame with an elderly man holding a ring of keys.

"The hotel manager, Berry Pierce, wasn't as helpful as we could have hoped for," Rossi sighed, shaking his head when the team's attention came back to him. "He's elderly and, unfortunately, doesn't believe in wearing the glasses his doctor prescribed. The description he gave us was rather vague. Both were male Caucasians, tall, dark haired, and, I quote, 'youngish.'"

Emily raised a brow. "You're kidding? That's it?"

"Did he get a name for either of them?" Derek bit.

Rossi scratched his ear, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "Not one we can use. They were signed in under Mal and Angus Young. Apparently, Mr. Pierce isn't much of an AC/DC fan."

Morgan looked as if he were ready to punch something. Emily understood his frustration. They all did. But she pushed down the aggravation, concentrating on the case at hand. _The case… _With all eyes peeled for Garcia and Reid, she'd almost forgotten why they were in this down in the first place.

"Should we assume that one or both of these men might be the Unsub we're looking for?" she voiced.

Hotch's jaw twitched, but his expression wasn't one of surprise. He'd been considering the idea, Emily knew. He had to have been, because coincidences weren't things they ran into often.

"There's a possibility," he said. "Multiple unsubs would explain the organization of the disposal sites, the ease of the abductions. If that's the case, then our unsubs might be siblings themselves, or at the very least, related."

Derek ran a hand over his mouth, wiping away the dampness at the corner of his lips. "But Reid and Garcia don't fit. They're _not _siblings. Neither of them even have siblings. And they were taken together instead of apart. This doesn't feel planned." He winced, shaking his head. "Which means that, if the murderers and their abductors are one and the same, Garcia or Reid must have saw something that threatened the unsubs. Made them react."

Emily straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. "…Or they were recognized." At Rossi's puzzled expression she went on. "Not Reid or Garcia. I mean, one of them might have recognized the unsubs. If the unsubs picked up on it, they might have reacted with their most familiar course of action. Abduction."

The team grew quiet. Emily knew exactly what her words implied. Unplanned. A reaction to a threat. If that were the case, there was a good chance the unsubs had disposed of Reid and Garcia already.

Derek took a step back, walking away from the group without a word. Hotch stared after him.

"We'll find them," Hotch said. His frown deepened, contradicting the words. "We'll find them. If the unsubs did react in a panic, they'll have left something behind."

Rossi nodded. "And we'll find it."


	4. Chapter 3: Waiting for the Sun

******Disclaimer: **I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. I am making no money off of these stories. Written for fun only.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Waiting for the Sun**

* * *

Above, pale gray clouds on a midnight blue backdrop danced without their usual music. A moment of silence between one heavenly wave "hello" and the next as they passed. But the world below was neither as quiet nor as peaceful as the sky.

Glass shattered, the exclamation mark on the final scream enough to still the lone possum dining at the bottom of the aluminum trash barrel.

The woman who stormed out was young, too young to be the child's mother. Her make-up was a charcoal smear beneath the tangled mass of bottle blond and hairspray, her fingers strained around an overfilled bag spewing skirts too short for the season and lace too synthetic to be undergarments.

A shoe dropped free, clattering against the wooden planks. She didn't turn back for it.

The child stepped off of the stairs, out of her way before she could storm down, trip over his small, hunched form. She was blind to him, either purposely or because rage made her so. By the light of the moon, the smaller form took shape: a boy, too short and too quiet for his nine years.

The woman held no interest for Ricky. The child on the other hand was, in a word, perfect.

There was not a soul inside the house aside from the father, and yet the old man's gravelly voice could be heard, calling out a name. Anger wrapped in that single word.

The child looked over his shoulder, gaze drawn to the slammed door, fear crossing his face for a split second before numb indifference took its place. He took a step back, crouching down beside the stairs to the porch, hiding there while fading red taillights brightening the old country road.

The woman gone. The father too lazy to follow.

Ricky had lowered himself to the boy's height, crouched low on the damp earth, but he was too far away to be seen or heard by the child. A crooked smile on his face, Ricky leaned forward, his lean silhouette breaking free of the bushes.

"Perfect, isn't he?"

Ricky nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. You're never wrong, big brother."

He could feel Glenn kneeling beside him, a shade made of ice touching his arm. The contact with his sibling comforted him, left him caressing his own fists like a thief in a goldmine. His fingertips brushed the ring on his finger and the grin became less maniacal, almost gentle. "Someone needs to be there for him," Ricky agreed. His body trembled slightly. "When?"

Glenn seemed to fall backwards, disappearing both from view and from existence in an instant. Ricky smiled when he saw his big brother's form further away, pale as moonshine, behind the cowering child. The unknowing child.

Glenn looked as he had in death, a flannel over a loose shirt, jeans. Blood. Too much of it. But it had lost its color, appearing to be black and gray shadows on the colorless flesh of his forehead. And Glenn was young, too, younger than Ricky now. Or, at least, he looked it.

Head cocked in study, Glenn's lips moved, though no sound came out. Ricky knew, though, what it was he mouthed to the child: "Soon."

* * *

Sam wasn't a fan of taking hostages for precisely the same reason he didn't enjoy babysitting. Voluntary responsibility over another human's life? Hunting was about stopping monsters and saving people, as his brother had drilled into his head a number of times. _Not_ about endangering them. And not about providing supervised bathroom breaks.

Not that he was actually _supervising_. Sam felt heat in his cheeks at the mere thought. Which was odd in itself. As much as Dean liked to poke fun, he hadn't been "shy Sammy" in a long time. The flush from the other side of the door startled him into awareness, his shoulders lifting off of the door before the knob twisted.

Penelope peeked out, a strained, nervous grin crossing her face for a split second. Most the makeup had been washed from her skin, though a cherry stain on her lips remained.

"All done," she announced.

Her blond hair was hanging loose around her round-cheeked face, a thin green-dyed highlight curling against her neck, the fuzzy barrette abandoned somewhere. Sam leaned over her, seeing the elastic on the edge of the sink. He sighed, putting his hand out, beckoning for her to relinquish her prize.

Penelope frowned, hand in the figurative candy jar, and dropped a bobby pin onto his palm.

Sam stood firm. "The rest of them."

She sighed, reaching up to yank two more off the bra strap she'd secured them to. Sam coughed down his chuckle at her pout when she relinquished the hair accessories.

"Do you even know how to pick a lock?"

She raised a plucked brow. "Can't be that hard."

"That's a no."

Penelope shrugged, the voice of defeat. "I was just planning to poke you really hard."

"Thanks for the heads up." Sam smirked, tilting his head in the direction of the main room. Penelope took the hint, walking in front of him.

Sam was surprised to see that his brother had untied their other guest as well. Meaning both of their "hostages" were currently unsecured. A dangerous move. An un-Dean-like move. Sam huffed, aggravated by the barely contained smile on his brother's face. Because,_ somehow_, Dean found something about this situation damned funny.

Sam was not as amused.

The older Winchester was sitting on a stool beside the lone bed, a fake seriousness to his wrinkled brow as he posed an important question to the FBI agent laying flat backed on the mattress like a psych patient on a sofa.

"So _up_?" Dean asked, yanking Dr. Reid's arm skyward to indicate the iron railed head of the bed. "Or _down_?" Dean dropped the lanky arm down beside the mattresses, where the skeletal bed frame was exposed. "Up or down, man? Not rocket science - up or down? Doesn't take a genius. _Though_, since you are one, this should be an easier decision."

Reid blinked, confused by the movement and opened his mouth to speak. Dean interrupted him.

"Up?"

It took all of Sam's strength not to slap his own palm against his forehead. Or, more likely, against the back of Dean's head. _God, I shouldn't have let Dean have dibs on the extra coffee this morning. _Sam reached out, gently taking hold of Penelope's arm to keep her from getting too close to her fellow agent.

"Down?"

Sam had a feeling Dean had already asked this question. Multiple times if the exhausted expression on Spencer's face was any indication. The young agent tilted his head up and opened his mouth once more, ready to reply when Dean glanced Sam and jerked Spencer's arm up as if he were a Raggedy Anne doll, cuffing him to the pole on the head board. The momentum pushed Reid's head back down onto the pillow. One leg rebelled, laying sprawled off the side of the mattress.

"Up it is," Dean chirped. At Spencer's frown, he nodded his head and grabbed the guy's foot, tossing it against the other. "You're a back sleeper. Trust me."

Sam rolled his eyes, deciding to let his brother's inappropriately good mood go unchecked. "So, I'm guessing they're getting the bed?"

Dean moved to the foot of the bed, jerking Reid's shoes off with a swift move, his eyes still on his brother. But Sam's had moved to the agent, noticing the split second of panic on the man's face at the action. Sam raised a confused brow, not wanting to consider what the expression was about, and waited for Dean's reply.

"Sorry, Princess," Dean smirked. "Hope it doesn't interfere with your beauty sleep."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam couldn't help the smile across his face, happy when it was reflected in Dean's eyes. He'd had to go without that _endearment _for too long. And for a while, he'd thought he'd never hear it again. Sam was vaguely aware of the odd looks he and his brother were currently receiving, but didn't mind. Their two hostages already thought the Winchesters were murderous psychopaths. Reputed potty mouths were the least of their problems.

Dean clapped his hands once, ending the moment. "Unless," his eyes drifted to Penelope. He wisely chose not to wiggle his eyebrow suggestively. "Unless Penny isn't comfortable with laying so close to her co-worker. If Spencer here is a little grabby, you could take the cot and we could duct tape the good doctor to the sofa…"

"No," Penelope interrupted. She blinked, as if flustered by the choice. Apparently, kidnapping wasn't supposed to come with options. "Um, thank you, the bed is fine."

"Settled then," he shot Sam a look, "dibs on the cot."

Sam didn't have to glance up to know the cot was closest to the front door. And also appeared to be older than either of the Winchesters. "Dean…"

Deans waggled a finger to stop him. "Your freakishly long legs are just going to have to cramp up on the sofa, Samsquatch. Now, tuck Penelope in already." He gave her a quick wink. "And don't let her talk you into anything I wouldn't do."

Sam ignored the statement. "There's a little research I wanted to do before bed."

Dean looked up. "No, Sammy." The mirth in his voice disappeared. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out an ache that seemed constant these days. "We're not going to have much time before their friends get a description on us. Better get in all the rest we can."

_Before we've got to run. _

Sam grimaced. Demons and angels were bad enough. Now the FBI would be on their case. Again. Fake deaths just didn't last as long as they used to. Much like real ones.

* * *

The bed was uncomfortable. Morgan really hadn't expected any different. He leaned his head back, missing the stack of pillows and hitting the wall. Heavy lids wanted to stay down, but he cracked his neck, keeping his gaze wide, watching the small motel room as if something might appear from one of the shadowed corners.

He'd searched it. Thoroughly. And, yet, her, Garcia's, largest bag remained untouched, still zipped up from the flight down. She'd be angry if he went through her things, if he lost one single earring.

Because she would be back. She would. And, she'd want to wear one of her favorite pairs.

"Miss you, baby girl," he said.

This hadn't been his first stop either. Two hours ago, he'd been in Reid's room, sitting back in the very same position. As if the abductors had left some message behind. But, they hadn't. Garcia and Reid hadn't had the time to unpack their shower items or settle in, so, in all likelihood, the abductors had never even seen the inside of the rooms.

Derek had went to them, nevertheless, after everyone had forced themselves to retire for the evening.

The knock at the door was faint, barely a tap, but it jerked him to awareness.

"Morgan?" The call matched the knock, but the sound was enough for him to make out the owner. Prentiss.

He shook his head, ashamed that he had thought, even for an instance, that it might be someone other than his accounted-for teammates. Morgan opened the door for her, stared out at the chill night. Prentiss didn't so much ask for an invitation as push her way in, rubbing the cold out of her arms.

"Thought you might be here," she said.

Morgan straightened. "Did something happen? Hotch didn't call…"

She shook her head, stopping him before he could get his hopes up. "Nothing like that." Emily stared at the open space, her eyes stopping on the wrinkled bed linen where he'd been propped. "I woke up a little early," she excused, leaving out the 'few hours' part. "Looks like you never woke up at all."

"I got some sleep," he defended.

Her frown said she didn't believe a word of it. With a shake of her head, she gestured for him to take a seat on the edge of the bed with her. The mattresses grunted at the give, but silence owned the room in seconds.

"Know why you're here?" Emily asked.

Morgan snorted, shaking his head. "As in, why I'm here on earth? Haven't the foggiest."

Emily cast him a glare. "In this room." She paused, weighing her options, before she continued. "Before I went to bed, Rossi said you were in Reid's room. Do you know why you've spent the night in their rooms?"

Derek wasn't in the mood to answer, but his mouth opened. "Studying the victims," he said, nearly at a whisper, "like I would in any other case."

She shook her head but didn't contradict him. "They aren't any other victims, though."

"Emily?"

Prentiss turned, watching his hunched form with wide, wet eyes. "Yes?"

Derek clasped his hands together, letting them hang down between his knees. "Garcia," he said, "Garcia's not trained for this." He licked day old coffee off his bottom lip, not letting his gaze raise. "And we know what these unsubs do to them, to the people they take. We've seen the damn videos, the photographs. We know." He turned to face her. "I wish we didn't. Know."

Emily reached out, gripping his shoulder. "Derek, Reid's been here before. He'll take care of Penelope. I'm trusting in that. In him. You need to do the same."

Morgan nodded, but his eyes had darkened slightly, emotion making them shine in the faint light. "Sure, the kid knows what to do. He'll take care of her." He raised his hands higher, as if in prayer. "For as long as he can."

* * *

Reid had a hard time staying asleep, and he doubted it had much to do with the cuff holding his hand above his head. He'd drifted in and out, craning his head to see that Penelope was having no such problems, no doubt emotionally exhausted by the events, her head angled towards him, hair spilled out as if to reach him. She'd placed her free hand over his. Though he usually found himself uncomfortable with physical contact, the warm comfort was one he appreciated, even if it had been done subconsciously.

Each time he had stirred and turned to check on her, his second move had been to twist his head toward the opposite wall. Dean and Sam had been awake sometime longer than they'd expected, contrary to what the oldest brother had stated. Finally, though, Sam had disappeared onto the sofa, his socked feet hanging off one end, his brown hair spilling over the opposite arm. Dean had laid back on the ancient cot, each movement sending a loud metal whine He'd grown still, fully clothed, a hand on his stomach, another tucked behind his head. Dean's eyes, though, had been open each time Reid had glanced his way, as if the man were in deep thought.

But, now, it appeared as if Dean Winchester was fully asleep, rolled out of his stiff position and onto his side, facing the bed.

A soft noise disturbed the silence of the room.

Reid raised a brow, surprised that it had been a short gasp from the older brother. He was having a dream. If the sheen of sweat on his brow, the clenching fingers over his blanket, weren't indication of a nightmare, then the grimace on his face surely was. By moonlight, his quiet struggle with his sleep made Dean Winchester appear almost childlike. Innocent.

But Dean Winchester wasn't innocent. Reid knew that, though he wasn't exactly sure what one could consider the two brothers. _Sick. _Sick was the word hospitals and defenders would use. Deranged would be the word the public would label them with. Delusional is what Spencer Reid had chosen.

Spencer had never been quite so thrown by the background of an unsub. Usually, a file was helpful, but, obviously, Agent Henricksen's wasn't doing much good. Perhaps that was what was throwing him off. He needed to sort through what he knew, throw out what was conjecture on Henricksen's part, put together what he had gathered over the hours with the brothers.

And he had to do it fast.

The Winchesters might be delusional, but the murders committed around Attalla were the work of a serial. Which meant, the need to kill wouldn't be sated by a change in their fantasies.

Dean moved slightly, his head ducking down, chin pressed into his chest as if to protect himself. The muscles of his face tensed.

The call was hoarse, quieter than a whisper. Reid wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been watching the man's lips form the choked name.

"No, Sammy…"

Reid heard the creak that followed, raising his head slightly to see that he wasn't the only one awake. Sam was propped up on the arm of the sofa, watching his brother with a hollow expression. Not a single emotion left naked on his face.

The small audience jumped when Dean jerked in his sleep, his eyes wide, a pant at his lips. Reid laid back, trying to close his eyes enough to look as if he hadn't been watching, but Sam remained exactly as he was, unashamed of his spying.

Dean locked eyes on his brother, guilt leaving his face paler.

Reid wasn't quite sure what that expression indicated, his own brow knitted in confusion. Reid caught the answer before it could leave his mouth, swallowing down the need to tell his theory on the matter. Because the team wasn't there to hear it and the Winchesters wouldn't like it very much.

Guilt. That was important. A missing piece.

Guilt because he was killing siblings? Punishing others because the two siblings he really wanted to hurt… Every bit of evidence on the Winchesters suggested that Dean was highly protective of his little brother. Even an uncontrollable urge to kill might not allow him to harm Sam, at least not at first, but, if that was what Dean wanted, to murder his little brother… That would explain why he was taking out his frustrations on siblings. But it didn't explain why he killed the older sibling as well.

_Unless the older sibling represents Dean himself, _Reid mused.

Perhaps Dean was breaking from his father's instilled delusions. Perhaps he was beginning to recognized what he and his brother were actually doing. To innocent people. Reid sucked in a quick breath, holding back a tremble at the thought. If he was correct, if Dean was that self-destructive, there would be no reasoning with him. A man ready to kill himself, to kill the very person he was raised to save, was beyond dangerous, beyond predictable, especially when one didn't know which delusions he was still acting out and which had already crumbled away, out of his reality.

Spencer wove his fingers through Penelope's, gripping on to her in fear.

"Want to talk about it?" Sam asked.

Dean snorted, shrugging off the question. "It's nothing, Sammy."

"Nothing?" Sam's jaw tightened. "Sure," the man bit. He rolled back onto the sofa, pounding down his pillow with one arm in frustration.

Dean had already turned his attention from his brother, staring at the bed. Spencer opened his eyes fully, knowing he'd lost the facade. He expected Dean to be angry at the invasion of privacy, but only the guilt remained in his eyes.

There was something else there, too. _Shame. _It made Spencer nauseous.

"Sorry I woke you, kid," Dean whispered, his voice hoarse again. "Go back to sleep."

Reid somehow doubted that was going to happen any time soon, not with a dozen new questions filling his mind. When he opened his eyes again, daring to look out, Dean Winchester was slipping out the front door, a leather jacket over his shoulders.


	5. Chapter 4: Follow the Breadcrumbs

******Disclaimer**: I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story). I am making no money off of this story. Written for fun only.

* * *

**Chapter 4 **

**Following the Breadcrumbs**

* * *

Dreams could hurt. They always did.

"_Glenn?" _

_Ricky swallowed down a whimper, holding his arm with one small, sweaty hand. Gina liked to pinch him there, in the crook of his elbow, liked to leave bruises behind. It made her chuckle, made her cigarette breath swirl over his face. But the pinches… the pinches always ended when Glenn stepped in. When Glenn made her pay attention to him instead. So, when Ricky stared out at the blackened room, looking for some sign of movement in his brother's bed, he didn't whimper in fear for himself. He whimpered in fear of who might be rustling those tea-stained sheets. _

"_Glenn?" _

_Ricky was ten. Ten was old enough. Ten was plenty old enough for him to take a few pinches without being a cry-baby. Glenn had taken it. Gina, too, from Dad. Ricky wanted to tell his brother as much, tell him that he didn't need protecting anymore. The words always bubbled to the surface before they broke into little fragments._

"_Just me, Ricky." His brother's voice was distant, but it was enough to comfort Ricky._

"_Was that Gina?" _

_Glenn rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was older, filled out, his teenage growth spurts beginning at long last. One bare arm was thrown over his forehead. Ricky realized that one arm was wider than both of his. So wide it should have been able to throw off Gina nowadays. _

"_Gina's a bitch," Glenn replied. His eyes didn't move from the shadows. They were cold, those orbs, stony as the rest of his face. Emotionless. _

_Ricky watched his brother. "At school," Ricky said, "this girl, her name's Marcy, she says she has a big sister. But, her big sister buys her things, takes her shopping. She's nice. Not all sisters are like Gina." _

_Glenn sat up, his body tense. "Ricky, tell me you didn't say anything." _

_Ricky shook his head so quickly it made him dizzy. "No, Glenn. I'd never tell." _

_His big brother was sated by the answer. Glenn let out a breath, licking his lips. "Ricky?" he said, catching the little boy's attention again. "Ricky, big sisters are supposed to protect you." _

"_You protect me, Glenn." _

_The statement hung in the air. The moment of silence between the two was not silent at all. In the dark, through the walls, they could hear the television on, abandoned on a sports recap. Daddy was yelling something. At Gina. _

_Shouting. _

_Snapping. _

_Screaming. Right before it went quiet. Real quiet. Footsteps passing in the hall. Gina calming Daddy down, like she always did. Like that would make it better. _

_Glenn and Ricky ignored the sounds, hearing only their own breathing on opposite sides of the room. _

_Glenn rolled over onto his side. "I wish Gina would die." _

"_Me, too, Glenn." Ricky like to pretend it was so. That Gina and Daddy were gone. That it was just the two of them, real brothers. No more too loud moments, no more too quiet moments. "I wish they both were." _

"_I'm gonna kill her one day." _

"_Promise?" _

Ricky woke, Glenn's reply still echoing through is ears: _"I promise."_

He wiped the sweat off his brow and onto the pillowcase, pushing himself up off of his bedding. It was chilly, but not cold enough for the thick blanket draped over him. He wished he'd slept on it instead. The floor wasn't comfortable, not in the least. But Glenn had said this was the best place for them, the safest place. And Ricky trusted Glenn.

"Please."

The word was far away. It made Ricky wince, remember tea-stained sheets. It took him a moment to realize that the child's voice belong to the little boy in the other room, in the cage.

The boy had no reason to beg, no reason to cry. But, he hadn't shut up, not since Ricky had pushed him into his new home.

"I'll give you a reason to cry," Ricky whispered. It was one of his father's favorite lines. He licked his lips, pleased with how the words sounded coming from his own mouth.

"Did you sleep well?" Glenn asked.

His brother's form appeared a few feet away, blinking in and out of existence a few times before it became solid. Cold, pale, but undeniably solid. To the eye. Ricky smiled up at him, nodding.

"Good." Glenn echoed the expression, though it never met his dead, foggy eyes. He reached down, brushing the hair off of Ricky's sweaty forehead. The caress was gentle, a reminder of what it was all for. Their purpose. Their drive. "We should get the room ready for Thomas."

Yes, Thomas. Ricky remembered the boy's name now. Little Thomas, the youngest one so far, the youngest of the youngest. They'd have to be careful not to break him too soon, before his big brother learned his lesson.

"And, Ricky?" Glenn took a step forward. His curling lips had become a straight line but something remained, some hint of glee in his gaze. "Thanks for this."

"Anything for you, big brother."

* * *

Sam stared down at his cell phone, his thumb gliding over the numbers but never quite pressing them. He swiped his chin, chewed his bottom lip, but it was a pair of eyes on his back that helped him decide against placing the call. He pocketed the phone, looking over his shoulder to where he'd moved the agent.

The dawn light spilled across the floor, overly bright from a thin layer of frost covering the world outside. Past it, in the shadows closest to the electric heater, Dr. Spencer Reid was once more tied to the wooden chair. This time, though, the chair beside him was empty, Penelope still lounged out on the bed under a pile of blankets, one arm stretched out above her.

Sam figured she'd be asleep for a few more hours, and Dean was still out, no doubt cruising around to clear his head. There was enough time, plenty, for him to step outside onto the front porch, call Ruby back_. If _it wasn't for the FBI agent watching him as if he'd grown two heads. And then, _somehow_, the guy would bring it up in front Dean. And Sam would get _that_ look.

No. Later. He'd call her later. When they were done with this town and ready to get back to the real job.

"Sam?" Reid called, his voice soft, mindful of the woman on the bed. "Sam, could I have some water?"

Sam felt like an idiot. Of course he was thirsty - Sam had completely forgotten that the agent hadn't had a drink all night. He walked to the cooler, grabbing a fresh bottle and pulling the box closer to the chair so that he could perch on its hardtop.

"Dean'll bring us some breakfast," Sam assured him, holding the bottle to the agent's mouth. "Hope you like bad coffee and grease."

Reid took a deep drink before nodding. Sam pulled it away, sitting it down at his feet.

"Thanks for not gagging us, Sam."

Sam stared at the man a moment, unable to stop the small smile on his mouth from forming. If Sam had ever thought he and Dean were too unconvincing as fake FBI agents, those doubts were now vanquished. Awkward, lanky, and at least as young as Sam, Spencer Reid simply didn't look the part.

"No problem," Sam replied, wiping condensation off on his jeans. "Listen," he cleared his throat, "you won't have to be here much longer, alright. If you just sit tight, you'll be fine, Spencer, you and Penelope both. I know you probably don't believe that, but it's true."

"It's not that I don't believe you," Spencer replied, cocking his head slightly, "I, well, I just - I'm not sure that you'll have any say in whether we'll be released."

Sam blinked. "What do you mean by that?"

Spencer's brown gaze was wide, imploring, as if he were the one asking a question. "Your brother might not want to release us." Before Sam could open his mouth, Reid continued. "I know that Dean says he will, but - Sam, your brother does things without you sometimes, doesn't he? Maybe when you're not around. Surely, he doesn't tell you everything he's planning?"

Sam bit down a bitter smile, deciding not to tackle that directly. This guy didn't need to know the secrets he and Dean kept from one another. "Trust me, Dean's not planning on hurting either of you."

"But -" Reid took a breath, starting over. "Sometimes, Dean does hurt people, doesn't he?"

Sam almost wanted to answer: "Sometimes I do, too." But he knew how that would sound, how civilians would misinterpret what the two of them had to do on a regular basis.

"I know what you're doing, Spencer. You need to stop before you go too far," Sam replied.

Reid opened his mouth, but Sam shook his head, cutting him off.

There was something sad and likable about the agent's crooked frown and wet stare. And Sam really wanted to like the guy. He could already tell that his brother had a soft spot for their supposed "hostages". Dean was more lax than he should ever be around them. But, Sam couldn't be that way. One of them had to keep control, and Sam decided it was probably going to be his place.

He wasn't sure how Dean could ignore the obvious, but Sam was far too aware. Too completely aware that Spencer Reid was a trained manipulator. That there was no way the agent would believe a word out of his mouth. That Reid and the tech girl believed without a doubt that his brother was bat shit crazy and homicidal.

"Let me guess," Sam said, his smile mocking, eyes downcast, "your plan is to thank me until I consider the two of us buddies. Then you'll start to talk to me about my dear, disturbed brother, explain to me how I'm normal Joe-Victim who's been wrapped up in my family's delusions all my life. How I tried escape them by going to Stanford, but was pulled back into this way of living by Dean. How I can still get out and save myself - if only I release you and Penelope and turn Dean over to the police." Sam eyes were slightly darker when they lifted. "How am I doing, Dr. Reid? Am I missing anything?"

Spencer swallowed. "No," he replied, after a long pause. "I'm aware of your background, your previous arrests. You have too much experience with this type of situation for me to attempt to convince you to turn on Dean."

"Then what's your end game?" Sam snapped. "I know you have one. You're a profiler."

Spencer pushed his back against the chair, blinking up at the other man. "What was your brother dreaming about this morning?"

Reid must have noticed the change in Sam's expression because his changed as well. The anxiety left his brow, leaving his face softer, pitying.

"Something changed recently."

Sam was almost surprised by the confidence in the other man's voice. The sureness. It didn't match the timid personality he was becoming used to. Sam's gaze narrowed, his lips a narrow, straight line. Yet, he couldn't force an answer, an explanation.

Reid's voice was nearly a whisper when he leaned forward. "What's wrong with Dean, Sam?"

_He's not strong anymore. He left something behind. _Sam hated that voice, feeding him answers. He ignored it, letting his frustration out on the agent instead. "None of your damn business, Dr. Reid," he replied. There was a forced, dangerous calm to his voice. Sam stood, made to turn, and looked back. "Mention it again, and I _will_ gag you."

* * *

"Latest news has gone national," J.J. announced, sitting on the edge of the desk, her arms crossed over her chest.

Hotch didn't to ask the specifics. He knew she was referring to Thomas Gravitt's abduction. It was amazing how quickly news could travel, but the media had been eying the small town closely since the second pair of bodies were found, waiting for the next lead. The third pair of abductions had only managed to stay quiet because the youngest hadn't been close to his immediate family, a rebellious young man, and he'd, unfortunately, not been reported missing in time for word to reach his sister.

"I managed to convince my contacts to leave out details on the status of the sibling." J.J.'s heavy stare bluntly announced that those contacts wouldn't keep quiet long. She went on, "Any word from Prentiss yet?"

"Michael Gravitt is in her custody," Hotch replied. They'd found Thomas's big brother one county over, staying at a friend's house. He'd reportedly had a fight with his father the previous night and hitched a ride. A dangerous move for a twelve-year-old, but perhaps one that had saved him from the abductor who took his little brother. "She's questioning him and the friend's family right now. We'll have the boy moved here when she's done."

J.J. shook her head, releasing a breath. "Could protecting Michael put Thomas in more danger?"

"Possibly," Hotch replied. He could read her expression well. It was the same one he had when he allowed himself to think about his son while on a case. "It depends on how long it takes for the unsubs to realize we have him in our custody. When they realize their needs can't be met, they may decide to dispose of Thomas early."

J.J. stood, stepping up to the board. "Thomas is younger than the others have been. Nine. Nine-years-old." She turned her back to Hotch, her shoulders tight. "Hotch. . . Sometimes this job really sucks." When she moved back into his line of sight, her eyes were a little redder. "I don't get it, Hotch. Why'd they abduct again so soon? They took Reid and Garcia yesterday afternoon and moved by evening? And they probably chose Thomas, right?"

Controlling one victim was hard enough. Three… There was a better possibility that the abductors had disposed for their last two before beginning again. Hotch hated himself for thinking it, and he certainly wasn't going to share the thought with J.J. Not until he had a reason to do so.

"We assumed the unsubs were locals, but they were staying at a motel," Hotch voiced, instead. His brow wrinkled. His own words had surprised him. "Local," he repeated, glancing the board. "Familiar with the area, with the dump sites, the abduction sites. The people. The unsubs have a large location, separate from a permanent living quarters. Somewhere they take their victims. A location that feels secure, far from neighbors."

J.J. cocked a brow. She'd heard as much before, during the preliminary profile, but it seemed more relevant at the moment. "Maybe the guys at the hotel weren't the abductors?"

"Possibly." But he sounded doubtful. He reached up, resting his fist against mouth while he mused it over. Two brothers, young, who'd paid for a room and disappeared before they could stay. At approximately the same time his team members were abducted.

There was something he was missing, he could feel it. "Either the two motel visitors were unrelated to the previous abductions or the unsubs had already planned to abduct someone from the FBI. The Emperor's Inn is the only motel remotely close to town. It would be a good assumption that we'd be staying there. A town this small, gossip would have announced our arrival before the media."

J.J. eyes widened as she followed his train of thought. "If it was planned…"

There was a greater chance that Garcia and Reid were still alive, not dumped in a ditch somewhere. Hotch didn't voice the rest of the statement though. Or that there was another possibility entirely. That, as completely unlikely as it was, Garcia and Reid's disappearance might have nothing to do with the other murders.

"We need to run this by Morgan," J.J. muttered. "Is he still with Rossi?"

Hotch nodded. "At the motel again."

They'd left less than an hour ago, checking out the Gravitt home before returning. Hotch wasn't honestly sure that Derek would leave peacefully if ordered away from the motel without a solid lead.

Hotch nodded. "I'll call."

* * *

Dean nearly flew through the front door, tossed the grease-speckled brown bag onto the table, and firmly decided he wasn't going to ask what the hell had happened while he was out. And, judging from the stare-down between Spencer and Sam, Dean was certain _something_ had happened. But, there wasn't time for that, not at the moment.

"Turn on the TV," he barked.

Sam didn't question him, switching the box on. It was already on the local channel - actually, Dean wasn't sure that the ancient bunny ears picked up more than the local channel - and the news broadcaster was showing an enlarged yearbook picture of a child, a boy.

"Heard it on the radio on my way here," Dean explained, a deep frown set on his face.

Dean glanced the rest of the room, noticing what he'd interrupted. Sam was in the middle of tying Penelope to her chair. She was half secured, her upper arms, shoulders held against the back of the chair, hands still free, but she didn't make a move, glasses-clad eyes focused on the screen instead.

Dean moved to the bag he'd tossed. "A kid was taken some time last night. Tommy Gravitt. He was discovered missing after his dad got spooked by - get this - an 'electrical disturbance' in his house. I asked the guy at the gas station about the Gravitts. Said he knew them personally. Tommy's got a big brother, but the news isn't mentioning him. Hell, I haven't even heard his name brought up."

Sam looked over his shoulder, his brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe 'cause the other kid hasn't been kidnapped yet? Don't know. We need to find him, though, make sure he's safe. Because he's next in the pattern."

Sam shot Reid a look. "I'm sure the FBI are ahead of you on that, Dean."

Dean shook his head, looking at the kid on the television. Round cheeked and dressed in a concert tee that was twice his size. He reminded Dean of Ben a little. Lisa's Ben. Hell if he would leave the cops to protect a kid from the supernatural. "Yeah, maybe, but they're probably expecting their big bad wolf to be a human. I somehow doubt they're putting him a circle of salt."

"If it's a ghost," Sam supplied.

"If it's _just _a ghost," Dean corrected, frowning at the implication. "Told you there was a job here, Sammy. Might not be a spirit- this thing's showing up on EMF, but he's traveling way more than Casper should."

Sam sighed. "Unless the spirit's attached to something that's moving," he replied. Then nodded, consenting. Dean recognized that he'd won and smirked.

After a moment, Sam crossed the room, catching Dean by the sleeve. "Actually, we could use this."

That wiped the smirk off of Dean's face. "So help me, if you say we use that kid for bait, I'll kick your ass."

"Not directly," Sam replied, wincing before he leaned forward in appeal. "Hear me out, Dean. If the cops already have the kid, then we're not going to be able to get to him, but we can keep an eye out. Catch anything that tries to get too close. In the meantime though, another abduction means that the Feds won't be paying as much attention to…"

"Snoops," Dean supplied. "Another kid - plus a few of their own - missing, and they're probably running around like ganked chickens. We might finally get to make a move on the coroner's office without getting busted."

"Actually, I was thinking of hitting up the county records." Sam gave the room a forlorn expression. "Because I'm not exactly getting wi-fi out here."

Dean snorted when he saw Penelope perk-up from her corner of the room at the mention. The amusement left him though when his eyes drifted over to Reid, who was studying him with more intensity than a fat kid watching fudge harden. Since he somehow doubted the agent felt _that _way about him, Dean cocked a brow. Then it hit him.

_Shit. _

Dean had been a second away from mentioning his own alibi to the two when he'd realized how early he'd slipped out of the cabin. He'd needed a breath of fresh air. He'd needed a place to shut his eyes where he wouldn't have an audience. The Impala had done just fine. Unfortunately, he was also out of view at the exact time Thomas went missing.

Spencer and Penelope weren't going to believe he and Sam weren't behind the other abductions any time soon.

Dean shook his head, pissed at himself - _wrong damn place, wrong damn time_ - and picked up the heavy bag cooling on the table. "Who's up for some breakfast?"

* * *

Morgan could feel Rossi's eyes on his back, but the older man didn't voice whatever concerns were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he stood back a few feet, nursing a paper cup brim-filled with coffee, black. Morgan was aggravated. Even though he knew the other agent had done nothing, even though Derek knew the emotion boiling up inside him wasn't meant to be aimed in Dave's direction.

"I know," Morgan snapped, standing up from where he'd been crouched in front of the ice machine. He shook his head, pursing his lips. "I know, I should be back at the station, looking into the kid."

Rossi raised a thick brow, pulling the cup from his lips. "Not necessarily," he finally answered.

The response surprised Morgan. He gave the man a questioning glance. They'd spent a good chunk of the morning being briefed on the Thomas Gravitt abduction, and Morgan knew what the stats said, that abducted children didn't have long. They were on a tight timeline, if, _if_ Thomas was to be found alive.

Rossi shrugged, as if he could hear the other agent's thoughts. "Derek," he began, "what would you do if this wasn't Garcia and Reid. If these were just two other victims."

The tenseness dropped from Morgan's shoulders, leaving his arms feeling heavy. "The same thing," he replied, still frowning. It was true, but it didn't make him feel any better for some odd reason. Derek took a break, shaking out his fingers, as if could flick out all the emotions running through him. His eyes ran over the small space. "I'm one of the unsubs…" he began anew.

Rossi nodded, taking another step back, watching the man work.

Morgan glanced around, noticing the chair unfolded beside the ice machine. He'd found the ice bucket, the water-filled plastic bag beside it, on the sidewalk. _Here_, he thought, stooping to run his fingers over the cool cement beneath the spot. The ice bucket had been missing from Penelope's room.

"I see Penelope here," Morgan says, focusing on the unsub's frame of mind.

"Why Garcia?" Rossi questions. "Why not Reid?"

"She's the one who came out for ice," Morgan replied, pushing himself to his feet. "Garcia tripped yesterday, twisted her ankle. She didn't say anything, but she was limping a little before Hotch told her and Reid to head to the motel. She must have went for ice after she settled in. Reid either followed her or came afterwards." Morgan didn't like where the exercise was taking him. "Garcia's vulnerable. She's sitting, checking on her leg. Reid comes into the picture. He's got his gun on him…"

Rossi's gaze narrowed. "You leave the cell phones behind, but not the gun."

Morgan nodded. "Not because I need a weapon - I already had one. It's the only way I could have controlled two adults at once."

"And you're not alone," Rossi added. He frowned, stepping up to Morgan, pretending to be behind him. "If one of them circled around behind Reid…"

Morgan nodded, following the thought, and moved out onto the sidewalk, where he'd found Penelope's feather. The room the two brothers were in was only a few down. The hotel manager had told him that only two of the rooms on the back side of the motel were in use, but that the brothers had requested a room back here.

Morgan's mouth opened, finishing the theory, "…A room in the back. Fewer witnesses." His eyes scanned the empty parking lot. It was smaller than the one up front, hidden by hedges on two sides. "No one notices the vehicles back here either." His footfalls quickened. He ducked under the crime scene tape, staring into the room. "Take the time to clean the area…"

Motel rooms were notoriously bad crime scenes for evidence teams. Too many prints, too much DNA. But this room had been wiped down, for the most part. Morgan eased himself down into the pulled chair at the small breakfast table, looking out through the half-closed blinds. Hotch had mentioned the possibility that the kidnapping was planned. If so, this area was chosen because it was hidden, not because it gave them the chance to spy their prey.

Morgan stood, and paused. He reached out, running his finger along the windowseal. The grit collected on his skin and he rubbed it between two fingers.

Rossi cleared his throat. "Salt," he provided. "The team collected some earlier. Just normal salt. It was spilled out along the window and door. Not much, though."

Morgan's brow was knitted in confusion. Not much, Rossi had said…But to Morgan, the streaks of movement in the salt seemed to indicate that it had already been cleaned up. "At the door, too?"

As if in response, their was a quick, knuckled knock on the open door. The hotel manager stooped under the tape, holding his curling back as if he expected it to break. The old man's jaw waggled, preparing to speak.

"Mr. Pierce, can we help you?" David asked.

"Uh, Agent, uh, Rossi?" he asked, stepping closer. His eyes widened a bit and he nodded to himself in confirmation. Even if Morgan hadn't been told that the manager's eyesight was failing, he would have realized it soon enough. "You, uh, you…"

"We're just checking the area again," Morgan replied. He gestured down to the table. "Mr. Pierce, do these rooms come with a set of salt and pepper shakers?"

Mr. Pierce blinked, as if his vision had failed completely, and then shook his head. "Why, no, son, don't come with them. These old units don't even come with a microwave." He gave a wet cough before reaching down into the pocket of his pleated khakis for a napkin. "But, uh, I ain't stopping in to be nosey. I just wondered if you got that there picture I sent your way."

"What picture?"

Rossi's pocket vibrated in answer. The agent picked it up, muttering about the reception, before he flipped it open. He shot the manager a glance. "What's this, Mr. Pierce."

"That there family," Mr. Pierce nodded, "the one staying a few doors down. I done told you they left on their vacation before your people got taken, but they called back earlier today. Their little boy lost one of his games and wanted to know if it was in his room. Got talkin' to his daddy, and the man said his boy had taken a picture on his phone. That picture," he said, poking one knobby finger at Rossi's phone. "Kid thought the car was real fine. I asked him 'bout it, and he said it was parked on this side o' the building."

Morgan found himself over Rossi's shoulder in an instant, staring down at the screen. It was a side shot of clean black lines, a classic. Nothing reflective in the background that would give them a tag number, but the model…The model looked like it would be easy to find.

"Send it to Gar-" Morgan's voice broke; he shook it off. "Sent it to Hotch," he corrected. "I think he's getting Kevin Lynch for tech consultation. He might be able to get something off of this." His eyes shot up, focusing on the manager. "And we're going to need to call this family back. See if they spotted anything else during their stay."

The old man hobbled back out, nodding to himself. "I'll get the number for ya."

Morgan shook his head, staring down at Rossi's cell again. "Kind of looks like an old Chevy…"

"Impala," Rossi agreed.

Morgan tilted his head, eyes narrowed at he studied the vehicle. It sparked something, a memory of a conversation he'd once had with another agent. "A '67..." he muttered.

"Maybe," Rossi replied. He shot Morgan a glance. "That mean something to you?"

Morgan licked his lip, trying to scratch at the memory. "No," he replied, "I don't think so." He shook his head. "Nah, I was just thinking of this agent I used to know. He had a bit of an obsession with a black Impala."

But Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that the vehicle should mean something to him. Something specific. He groaned. Some days he'd sell his soul for Reid's memory.

* * *

The Winchesters had secured them expertly, a little too well versed in the ways of detaining another human being for Penelope's liking, and they'd left for town after breakfast, warning the two of them to stay out of trouble. Opening the front door had sent a cool wave over the room, reminding her that it was winter in a rural community. Not exactly the best circumstances for an attempted escape.

Even though it was shut now, the chill remained in the large main room of the cabin. Penelope eyed the heater sitting between her and Reid's chair, wishing she had one arm free so she could turn it up. The weather had been so mild when they'd arrived that she hadn't thought twice about changing out of her dress. Now she was regretting the choice.

Granted, if she'd known kidnapping was on the agenda, she would probably have packed a completely different wardrobe. Foresight being 20/20 and all.

Penelope stared at the door, waiting for it to open as quickly as it had closed, but it didn't. There was a muffled sound from right outside. Raised voices. No doubt belonging to her capturers. But, she couldn't make out the words. They faded into the distance, the sound of an engine far away.

"Garcia?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the whisper. Reid was eyeing her, his gaze shifting from her chair to the door, as if he was waiting for the knob to turn as soon as he reopened his mouth.

"Penelope," he corrected himself.

Penelope knew he was trying to comfort her, but it didn't quite reach home. "Please tell me your genius mind has devised a way of getting us out of this cabin," she whispered back.

"I need you to listen to me." Reid took a breath, losing whatever authority he was trying to conjure. "I - I need you to promise me something, Penelope. If something happens…" He paused, glancing the door again, before he continued, "If something happens and you manage to get loose, I want you to run. I can slow them down, I think, but…"

Garcia shook her head. "Oh, you are so not suggesting I leave you behind," she hissed. "Doctor, for someone so intelligent, you're awfully stupid sometimes. I'm not going to leave you behind. Period."

Reid frowned. "Penelope, their reported history with women…" He chewed his bottom lip, considering the right words. "What do you know about the Winchesters?"

Garcia blinked. "Other than the fact that they obviously have no qualms about kidnapping federal agents, and they're probably the crazies we came to this town looking for?"

"Possibly," Reid agreed.

Garcia raised a brow, confused by the answer, but she didn't have time to question it. Staring into Spencer's solemn brown eyes, Penelope felt another chill run over her. This one wasn't caused by the breeze. "Well, that and what I've gathered while you were talking to them. What do you know about these two, Reid?"

Reid raised his head, as if trying to work up the courage to continue. "First," he began, "I should probably tell you what they believe in…what they were raised to believe in."

Penelope swallowed, her voice low, "I'm not going to like this story, am I, Reid?"


	6. Chapter 5: Dead Men Drive

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Criminal Minds_ or _Supernatural_. Not written for profit. Unless there's some way to cash in reviews for Facebook points…

**A/N: **I know other agents ask the BAU to help with profiling suspects and just can't get the image of Henricksen being that grating, annoying guy who kept pestering the team about his little obsession over the years…

* * *

**Chapter 5 **

**Dead Men Drive Kick Ass Cars**

* * *

The roadways were slick, the temperature outside dropping quickly. Yesterday, they'd arrived to unseasonable warmth. Rain had met them by sunset and a light, barely-existent snow by morning. Emily hoped that didn't mean ice was next on the weather's agenda.

"Alabama winter," Officer Collins excused, as if he'd been able to read her mind. "Kinda likes to go from one extreme to the next."

Emily shot him a polite smile. Slick black hair and a square chin; the statey would have been attractive it weren't for the wedding band pressing against the steering wheel. He didn't take his eyes off the road, the state police vehicle teetering with the speed limit. Emily turned away from him, looking over her shoulder at the backseat passenger.

Michael Gravitt was staring out the window, watching the trees pass by. He was tall for his age, well built. She would have easily mistaken him for fourteen, at least, if it weren't for the pout at his lips. It was almost a comical expression, but the circumstances were anything but funny: he was trying to keep himself from crying. Emily recognized as much and had the good grace not to bring it up.

"Hey, Michael?" she called. "How are you doing, buddy? What do you want me to get you to eat when we get back to the station? Anything you want."

Michael shrugged, his eyes never leaving the outside world. "Whatever."

Prentiss had only known the kid for a few hours and she'd already heard the one word response five times. "You like burgers?"

"Sure."

Emily bit down her smile. She'd always thought kids were more talkative, but she had a feeling that Michael was always this quiet, even on days that didn't include his little brother being kidnapped. Maybe it had to do with the father… Prentiss was no longer fighting a smile, her lips set in a thin line at the mere thought of the man who'd reported his son missing, angry instead of afraid, blood alcohol level through the roof. Between his hostile attitude and Michael's responses about his homelife, Emily had a feeling that neglect, at the very least, played a bit part in Michael's flippant behavior.

"How much longer?" Emily asked.

Officer Collins didn't so much as blink. "Seven, eight more minutes," he chirped. "Don't worry, Agent Prentiss. I got a full tank and no reason for stopping between here and there." He shot Michael a kind glance through the rearview mirror. "You'll like Sheriff McKinney, Michael. If you ask real nice, he'll probably let you use a stun gun on Deputy Barnel."

Michael sucked in a quick breath, but it wasn't from excitement.

"A man." Michael's voice was high, afraid. Emily turned in her seat, staring back at him. Michael had pushed himself as far back as his seat belt would allow, nearly to the center of the car, one raise finger pointing out the window. "There was a man out there - did you see him?" His blue eyes were wide. "There-there was something wrong with him…"

Emily opened her mouth to reply when the radio beat her to it, letting out a loud squeal. Static followed, the lights on the dash blinking in unison with the rise and hiss of the sound.

"What the hell?" Collins muttered.

Emily reached out, trying to stop the sound when she heard the officer shout out in surprise, his arms twisting as he turned the wheel from the lane and hit the brakes. Prentiss braced herself against the door on instinct, seconds before the car bounced upward, hitting the gravel. The tires slid against the ice, jackknifing the vehicle tail first into the ditch beside the pull-off.

Prentiss slammed back against her seat, the breath knocked out of her for a moment. Her eyes blinked furiously at the windshield. A few seconds of silence passed, just long enough for her to tame her swimming thoughts.

"What just happened?" Emily asked, grappling for her seat belt release. Though they hadn't flipped, the feeling of tilting backwards was disorienting. She felt heavy, especially with her frantic heart playing the congas in her chest. "What just happened?" she repeated, louder. "Officer Collins?"

The officer groaned, but not from injury. He was shaking his head, confused. "There… there was a man."

Emily ran a hand across her face, trying to clear away the _deja vu_. Wasn't that what Michael said, just a moment ago? _Michael_. Emily jerked in her seat.

"Michael, buddy, are you alright?"

There wasn't an answer. Her seatbelt popped free, and she turned, staring back. She was met with an empty seat and cool breeze from the open door.

"Michael?" she called, staring dumbly at the door a moment longer before she struggled with her own, slipping and sliding as soon as her feet hit the ground. She toppled out, not waiting for Officer Collins to follow her lead. Her eyes roamed the snow dusted grass of the ditch below the open door.

No footprints. Not a one. And then a thought occurred to her, one that stopped her in her place: the back doors couldn't be opened from the inside.

Michael Gravitt had been taken. In a split second.

* * *

"… And those were their last known whereabouts…"

Penelope Garcia knew monsters existed. She'd seen her team capture their fair share of them. But when she was a child, she'd believed in the real deal. Claws and fangs. Glowing eyes and cold spots.

"…Though, that's not taking into account…"

Deep down, a little part of her still believed in those things.

So, she could understand how someone else could believe in monsters, too. How someone could take that belief too far.

"…If we were to look through the records for…"

"Reid, honey." She had to pause, wait for him to stop speaking. His dark eyes danced over her, waiting for a reaction. They softened, and she could tell Reid was afraid he'd said too much. "That's enough… I really, really," she forced a tight smile, "don't want to hear any more of their backstory."

Because it hurt to hear it. Two little boys, a grieving father, a dead mother. A mission to save people from things that go bump. A criminal record. Fake IDs and credit card scams. Hospital records and grave desecration. And she knew what Spencer was skimming over, too. The murder. Murder_s_. Alleged. Mostly, though, she kept circling back to the two little boys part.

When it came to judging people at face value, Penelope Garcia had been wrong in the past. Oh boy had she been. She had the scars to prove it. But she still hadn't quite convinced herself that that little spark behind Dean Winchester's smile, or Sam Winchester's wide, puppy-dog eyes, was entirely sinister.

"Are you sure, Reid?" Penelope asked. Not because she doubted him as a profiler. Not a chance. But Penelope had noticed the way he was speaking. Like he doubted the very words coming out of his mouth. "I mean… I know you've already said that Henricksen got some things wrong about the Winchesters. But are you really sure they're the bad guys here? I mean obviously, not good guys, but... Are we sure they're who we're looking for?"

Reid licked his bottom lip, not meeting her eyes entirely. "Fits," he managed.

She raised a brow. He looked up at her with a small frown.

"Maybe not all of it," he amended. Reid hunched forward, his voice low. "But, can we take that chance?"

Penelope was saved from having to answer. There was a sound outside, rumbling and mechanical. Quickly becoming familiar. It was Winchester's car. The Impala. Their abductors were already returning.

Something about that car, about the image of those two young man stepping out of it, reminded her of something she'd heard once.

"This is going to sound weird, Reid," Penelope warned, her voice at a whisper, "but this kinda reminds me of a story."

Spencer raised a brow, but his eyes were already tracing the distance between the door and their chairs.

"One Kevin told me about," she continued. "He reads this book series, and he's been harping at me for not picking them up… I just haven't had the chance, you know? Anyway, I could have sworn…"

But Reid wasn't listening. The voices outside were getting louder. The door knob turned. Whatever Penelope was going to say faded away, lost. Because she suddenly remembered her own belief in smiling monsters. And the fact that she was still a hostage. Suddenly some old book's plotline didn't feel relevant.

* * *

"Damn it, how're we supposed to get anything done with FBI agents spilling out of the woodwork?"

Dean trudged into the cabin, carefully stepping over the salt line. Sam was at his heels, the younger brother's arms filled with a stack of files. The trip hadn't been a complete bust, but the coroner's _had_ been a let down. Between the locals, the state officers, and the feds, there wasn't much room for their extensive selection of fake ID s.

Sam was wearing a sour expression, and Dean was about to point out "bitch face," when his little brother sighed and sat down the load next to his computer. "After what happened this morning, I think you were right about this case," he announced.

Dean cocked his head. "We already went over this, didn't we?"

Sam gave him a sheepish shrug in response. "Yeah, well, Dean," he released another breath, "I wasn't really sure if you were…" His voice broke, his eyes shifting to the room's other occupants as if he'd forgotten them. "You know what, never mind. So, a ghost…"

Dean shook his head. The tight smile at his lips was teasing, but Dean knew his brother could read the intensity in his eyes. "Suddenly bashful, Samantha? Come on, what were you going to say?"

Sam rolled his jaw. "Fine. I wasn't really sure if you were a hundred percent on this case. Especially after Tommy Gravitt was taken. Man, I know how you are about kids." He shook his head, breaking eye contact. "You were always the one telling me that we only stick to _our kind _of work, but I thought, maybe, you were just going to use this boy's abduction as an excuse to stay on."

Dean wasn't an idiot. One look at his Sam's face told him he was lying. That the comment his little bro had _meant_ to make involved the big trip downstairs. Dean chewed his jaw, considered not letting it go, and decided against being the stubborn SOB this round. It would come up again, he knew, but not now. Not while a kid was in danger.

"But now?" Dean asked, instead.

Sam flipped back through the files, pulling out a map between them. "Like I said, I think you're right. But we're going about finding this thing the wrong way." He took a seat, eyes tracing the lines on the paper. "While we were at the archives department, remember the two officers we heard talking about the case? They mentioned what the profilers had said about suspecting two abductors now."

Dean raised a brow. "You think we have two spirits?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I think we have one ghost, but…Remember what we said about ghosts not traveling unless they're attached to something? What if the ghost is attached to something another person is carrying around? With the victims all being siblings…"

"Wait, you," Dean broke off, blinking, "you're saying some person out there is helping their dead brother or sister kidnap and torture people for kicks?" His eyes widened at Sam's nod. "What the hell, dude?" He huffed, slouching down onto the bed. "What kind of freak does…?" He paused midway through the question, his eyes staring off at the floor as if it had opened up in front of him. He swallowed, his throat shaking with the motion, and licked his lips. "So, how's this change things?" he asked, his voice lower.

Sam remained quiet, eyes following his brother's movements. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned back to the pile of paperwork. "Well, for starters it narrows things down. We're looking for a death years ago that left behind a sibling. And my guess is, that sibling is going to be disturbed enough to stand out in a crowd."

Dean groaned and fell back against the mattress, holding himself up on his elbows. "Okay, then, Sammy, answer me this: why were the murders so spaced out before five weeks ago?" He nodded at the files. "We get a couple deaths over a span of years and then suddenly a whole chain of deaths. Something doesn't add up."

A small cough drew their attention.

"A stressor."

* * *

"A stressor."

Reid regretted the attention as soon as it shifted to him. When the Winchester's turned to stare in his direction, though, he licked his lips and went on. "What we call a stressor. Something traumatic took place in the unsub's life. It could have been a death, an illness, a change in living conditions…"

His gaze rose to meet Sam's without meaning to. Sam's lips were pursed, his brow lowered, warning the agent. But Reid noticed that Dean's expression was open, curious. The older man had sat up straight, hands cupping his knees as if he were preparing to stand.

"Is that how you'd track him?" Dean asked. "That how we can find the guy?"

Reid shook his head, fidgeting against the ropes around his chest. "Doubtful," he replied. He ignored Penelope's indignant snort - _yes, she could probably use the tid-bit of information to do miracles, if she had her set-up. _"We take that information into consideration, but it alone isn't enough. What might be a stressor to an unsub might appear to be something ordinary to anyone else. Or it might be an event that was never made public."

Spencer could feel the glare burning a hole through him. Sam Winchester would be able to give Hotch a run for his money when it came to withering stares, but Spencer wasn't going step down, not when he had been presented such an opening. Something, _something_ happened to Dean recently, something that was haunting him, and Reid was determined to find out what it was. Because knowing everything he could, having a full profile, was what was going to get him and Penelope out alive.

"In some cases, only the unsub himself can tell us what actually happened…"

Dean cocked a brow. "There you go using that word again: unsub. What's that mean?"

Reid opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off. "Unknown Subject." At Dean's expression of disbelief, Sam shrugged. "You need to watch more TV, Dean."

Dean pushed himself up to his feet. "Alright, so something set the guy off, got it." His fingers swiped his lips, wiping away the dampness there. "This dick and his dead Obi Wan decide they need to spill a little more blood in the water in order to make themselves feel better. So, they quit spacing out their kills, don't leave any time between kidnappings anymore. . ." His voice trailed off, and he took two quick steps toward the agent.

Reid's eyes widened at the move, his body stiffening in preparation for a blow. But Dean only pushed the cooler up to his chair, taking a seat in front of him.

"Alright, Spencer, I need to ask you something."

"Dean, don't," Sam groaned from the table. He slapped the map down on the wood, annoyance dripping from him. "Seriously, dude. Don't talk to him."

Dean waved his brother off. "Spencer's going to help us out, aren't you?"

Penelope's chair moaned as she twisted to see what was happening beside her. "Dean," she muttered, but Reid was already shaking his head to stop her.

"What did you want to ask me?" Reid asked, his voice soft.

Dean rolled his shoulders, as if to shrug off an ache. Reid had noticed him make the move several times. An ache in his shoulders, an ache in his legs, an ache in his neck, as if Dean were remembering some old pains. Reid knew it wasn't caused by any injuries, but he wasn't about to call attention to the movements. Not yet. He waited for Dean to continue.

"That kid who was taken early this morning. Tommy Gravitt. He has a brother named Michael." Dean shook his head, angry gaze downcast, but Reid knew the emotion wasn't intended for anyone else. This was what Spencer had seen before Dean had disappeared in the night: guilt. "They got to the other kid before we could track him down," Dean continued. "That's all everyone was talking about when we went into town. Michael Gravitt was snatched up while he was being moved to the Sheriff's office."

"Only hours after Thomas was abducted," Reid muttered, his brow knitted.

Dean gave a crooked smile. "And once again, I was out of the room. Gotta work on having better alibis…" He cleared his throat, seriousness taking over. "Spencer, I need you to do your job, alright? I need you to tell me how long these kids have left." He chewed his lip. "Or… or if you think they might already be dead."

Reid had to stop the statistics from falling out of his mouth. Dean Winchester wouldn't care about the percentage of children found alive if recovered in the first twenty-four hours. He wouldn't care that every hour missing the percentage dropped. He wouldn't care because he was the one responsible.

Right?

It was hard to believe, staring into those sincere green eyes. Watching the tension cross Dean's face at the mere mention of the children dying. A part of Reid wanted to believe that these two brothers, as delusional as their histories made them out to be, were simply in town by coincidence. Hunting down another pair of serial killers they'd convinced themselves were supernatural beings. But the chances of that… Reid didn't need to remind himself. The possibility, the likelihood that they were stowing away victims, that Dean and Sam were responsible…

_Unless_ he looked at the facts. The ones he could see from where he sat. They _almost _told a different story. And then there was Penelope's reaction to them. Not that she was a profiler, but, still…

Reid shrugged off the thought. There wasn't time for contemplation, not while he had Dean's attention. He couldn't risk it.

"Dean," Reid wanted to try reasoning with him. Just once. He'd thought, for a split second, that he might be able to reach Sam, but the attempt had fizzled before it could begin. But he hadn't really pushed Dean, not yet.

Spencer looked over Dean's shoulder, at Sam. The young man was shaking his head, still warning him.

Maybe now wasn't the time. Reid fell back on playing along. If he could convince Dean that the kids were alive… Maybe he'd keep them that way.

"When Michael was taken," Reid caught his breath, not realizing he'd lost it, "when he was taken, did the unsubs leave behind any pictures of Thomas? A video?"

Dean straightened. "No… I don't think so. If they did, the officers we overheard didn't mention it." He frowned. "Which I guess is a little off… These asshats sent their victims videos and pictures of their younger siblings being tortured in all the previous cases, but they…"

"Probably didn't have time," Reid fed him. "My guess is that they went off script because Michael was being moved to a safe place where they wouldn't be able to reach him. If that's the case, they didn't have time to torture Thomas."

"That's good and all, but how does it help us?"

Spencer leaned forward, his voice low, imploring. "Serial killers do what they do because they have needs that aren't being met. For some reason, these unsubs _need_ to show the older siblings how the younger ones are suffering. They didn't have time for that with the Gravitt brothers." Reid could feel the restraints pinching at his skin, but he only pushed against them more. His whisper was so quiet that he doubted Sam could hear it. "This is good Dean. It means that they'll need to keep both boys alive longer. To show Michael whatever it is they want him to see. You've got time. You can save them."

Reid took a breath. He was tempted to turn to Garcia, give her a reassuring glance, but he knew she was following him. This was exactly what they'd talked about, the way the Winchesters saw danger, saw monsters, at every turn. She knew to play along.

"Penelope and I will do whatever we can to help you _save_ them, Dean."

Dean nodded, slowly standing. "We've got time then. That's all I needed to know." He held his palms out in a quick, thankful gesture. "Remind me to buy you a drink after this, scarecrow."

Reid wasn't sure when Sam had stood, but the towering man was behind his brother in an instant. He reached out, grabbing Dean by his shoulder. Dean jumped slightly at the contact but hid the movement with a dismissive shrug.

"We need to talk," Sam said.

Dean raised one eye brow, taken aback. "Well, talk then. But if this gets chick-flicky, I'm exercising my right to press the mute button."

Sam shot Reid and Penelope a look before turning back to his brother. "I need to talk to you _alone_," he insisted.

* * *

Morgan slouched down into the chair, studying the blown up photograph dangling from his fingertips. Even sharpened, it was still poor quality thanks to the source. Still, Morgan felt as if it were entirely _too_ familiar.

"We've got their vehicle then?"

Morgan glanced up to see Prentiss approaching him. He straightened, shaking his head at her appearance. She wasn't supposed to be back quite yet. Something told him the headstrong woman had all but forced the EMT checking her out to release her with a clean bill of health. Hotch wouldn't be happy about that, though… Morgan looked past her, seeing Hotch on the phone as he strode next to Sheriff McKinney. The man had barely registered Prentiss's reappearance.

Prentiss turned, following Morgan's gaze. She rubbed at a crick in her neck. Morgan didn't comment on it. Or on the accident. Or on their second missing kid. Prentiss wouldn't appreciate the reminder.

"Hotch on the phone with Strauss?" she asked.

Morgan didn't reply, slouching forward instead, as if he were trying to lean into the picture in front of him. "We don't have a tag, but we have a possible make and model." He handed her the printout.

Emily frowned, shaking her head. "Any local hits?"

"Rossi's making a few phone calls. The closest city has a guy who gets in parts for classics, but this town's a bit dry on specialist mechanics." Morgan watched Prentiss's lip twitch, knowing that she was dying to interrupt. "So far, though? Kevin's searching the vehicle registry, but there's no listing for a local with a '67 Impala."

Prentiss shook her head, confused. "But we profiled a local. Someone who lived in this or the adjacent county, and what we've ended up with… Two guys staying at a motel? With a car that doesn't seem to be owned by anyone in the area? Morgan, this case is making less and less sense. We've profiled these guys all wrong." She sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed over her chest.

Morgan knew what she wasn't saying. She could have continued to argue her point, but it would involve pointing out one of the major flaws: Reid and Garcia hadn't been dumped, but two more had been taken.

"How's Officer Collins?" Morgan asked.

Prentiss released a breath through her nose, the slightest bit of annoyance in the shift of her eyes. "Shaken up, but he'll be fine," she replied. "He's still saying he drove off the road to avoid someone standing in his lane. Which I suppose has to be right…" She shook her head, unconvinced. "Especially with as fast as Michael disappeared. I swear, Morgan, I didn't even hear the back door open."

"You lost time," Morgan answered. "It happens in accidents."

Prentiss nodded, staring down through her near-black bangs. "It just seemed so fast." Her gaze found the printout stealing Morgan's focus and she held it up. "Huh."

Morgan raised a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," she muttered, "it just reminds me of… The alias at the motel - famous rock bands. Two brothers. A black Impala." She gave an unamused chuckle, rolling her tongue against her jaw in thought. "If I didn't know better…"

Morgan sat up straight, his body rigid. "This reminds you of that case, too?"

Prentiss frowned. "Who could forget? I think Agent Henricksen contacted J.J. on a weekly basis."

"He was even worse before you were put on the team. Obsessed over those brothers. And, from what I heard, his psych eval suffered, too," Morgan noted, rolling one wide palm over his head. "I think Reid was the only one he managed to get help out of. Kid had a hard time saying no." Morgan shook his head. "Man…I haven't thought of Victor in a while."

"Not since he died in that gas explosion," Prentiss agreed. With a cock of her head, she begrudgingly added, "_and_ his suspects with him. Which rules out the Winchester brothers as our unsubs, I suppose. Though, if I didn't know better, I'd say our current unsubs could have studied criminal behavior under them."

But her colleague had quit listening.

"…Went up in a fiery blaze that killed a half-dozen." Morgan cradled his chin between two fingers, rubbing the bristled surface. "But, Emily, what if…"

Hotch opened the glass door to their work area, frowning at his two agents. "Rossi didn't find anything with the mechanics. We have officers asking about the vehicle, and J.J. speaking with the local news station right now."

"Hotch." Morgan stood, leaning over the table. He knew officers were already asking local businesses and water-holes about the vehicle, but they wouldn't be asking the right question. "I'd like to go ask the attendants at the gas stations myself. Start with the ones in the most rural areas first."

Hotch's gaze narrowed slightly but he nodded his consent. Morgan didn't have to turn to know that Prentiss's brow was raised, asking him what he had in mind. She and Morgan both already knew the answer to the question neither of them would dare pose to Hotch quite yet.

Morgan was looking for two dead men driving an Impala.


	7. Chapter 6: Monsters We have Known

******Disclaimer**: I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story). I am making no money off of this story. Written for fun only.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

**Monsters We Have Known**

* * *

The wetness at his fingertips was salty, clear. Tears. Not his own. Soon it would be different. He would walk away, and it would be blood smeared across his skin. A metallic flavor, not quite sweet but almost. Ricky had tasted it once, when his curiosity had gotten the better of him. There was power in blood. And danger. That was one of the reasons he was drawn to it.

The tears were glistening on his fingertips. He rubbed his thumb over them before wiping them off on his jacket.

"I'll kill you!"

Ricky was shaken from his thoughts by Michael's venom. The boy was at the room's corner, struggling against the ropes holding him against the wall. Ricky had tried many different techniques when it came to restraints, but most of them were too complicated. Too much trouble.

The thin nylon ropes made the boy look as if he were covered in fat thread, a ball of it. The thought made Ricky smile. Michael was in a standing position, forced into it by the pull of the knots. Ricky had taken an industrial staple gun from his last workplace. It was surprising how well it held the restraints to the sheetrock of the wall, like Frankenstein's staples holding down the crown of his skull.

One would pop free, then another, but never enough, never enough staples to give the boy the chance to free one arm, one leg. This new method wouldn't work on an adult. Glenn had pointed it out to Ricky, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was the project of the moment. These two. These brothers.

And Ricky wanted to make sure Michael stayed standing. Stayed aware, on his feet. So he could have a good view.

"Did you hear me?" Michael spat. His cheeks were shaking with rage, but his face was pale, clammy. Afraid. A twelve-year-old's face. "I said I'll kill you, you creep. Let me go!"

Ricky shook his head, looking around the room. Wanting Glenn to be there. To take over. "I just spoke with Thomas," Ricky said, as if he were mentioning the melting snow outside. "He's mighty upset."

Michael grew still, forgetting that he was trying to pull the ropes free. His eyes widened. "You're… you're the one who took my little brother," he said. His wet lashes dropped the years from his face, making him look more like his sibling. "Please… I take it back. I'll… if you let Tommy go, I won't be mad. I won't tell."

Ricky shook his head. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice lower. "So brave, so concerned. Where was that concern when Thomas needed you last night?"

Michael bottom lip quivered. "I just… I didn't mean to leave him."

"But you did, didn't you? You left him."

"I didn't _think_."

"Don't lie!" Ricky snapped, livid. He stomped forward, gripping Michael by the jaw. "You wanted to get rid of him. You didn't care if -" Ricky broke off, shaking his head. The anger seemed to evaporate off his face. When his voice returned, it was casual, explanatory. "You don't understand yet. But you will. We'll teach you." He smiled down. "Glenn and I, we'll teach you what it means to be a good big brother."

* * *

Sam reached the porch and stopped to balance his hands on his waist, surveying the dead landscape of woodland around him and holding back the shiver the icy wind brought to surface. One breath, one moment of composure, then he rounded on his brother. Dean shrugged his shoulders into his coat and quietly shut the door behind him, confusion wrinkling his forehead when he stared down his little brother.

"What the hell's your problem, Sammy?" Dean snapped.

Sam's eyes widened. "_My_ problem, Dean?" he asked. "My problem would be the way that guy's trying to manipulate you."

Dean blinked, gesturing back into the house. "Spencer?" he asked, surprised.

Sam raised his chin. "Yes, _Spencer. _Otherwise known as Dr. Reid, the FBI agent - just in case you've forgotten that part. Dean, you need to quit talking to him."

Dean raised a hand to stop his brother. "Dude, what the hell, did he sleep with your demon chick or something? What happened while I was out?"

Sam ignored the mention of Ruby, taking a calming breath through his nose. "Dean, I don't get it. You've always known how to handle yourself around the police in the past, and suddenly you're flushing the manual? How can you not see what that agent's trying to get you to do. He's watching your every move, trying play into your 'delusions.' I've got a twenty that says he'd probably say he believed in demons if you went in and asked him right now."

Dean shook his head, a small smile on his face. "What, and you don't think I know he's playing along? I'm not an idiot," he snapped. "It's not like I'm handing Spencer a sawed-off and expecting him to watch my back, Sam. We might be looking for a human criminal here, and he's an expert on finding those. What, you want me to just lock him in a closet and ignore anything he says?"

Sam bit back whatever was about to leave his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Dean," he managed. "That's not what I'm saying. I just want you to remember who these people are. Anything we say in front of him right now, he can use against us later."

"I'll be sure to bring that up to my lawyer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

"_Sam_," Dean mocked. He took a quick step forward. "Look me in the eye and tell me what this is really about. I somehow doubt you drug me out here to give me a lesson from Hostage Taking 101. So, spit it out already."

Sam let his head drop, as if he were exhausted by the discussion. His gaze ventured out at the woods and he felt that chill across his back again. This time it wasn't the cold. Though he didn't see any movement in the shadows, he had the strangest feeling that someone was watching him. _Ruby? _Sam licked his bottom lip on instinct but quickly brushed off thoughts of his "demon chick" and her little offerings, a small part of him afraid that his brother might become a mind reader over the next ten seconds.

He pulled his gaze back to Dean, surveying that expected kiss-my-ass expression that was so familiar. _No way of getting through that thick skull_, Sam reminded himself, but he opened his mouth, nevertheless. "We give up so much." His voice was low, almost lost. "We sacrifice so much to save people. You went to Hell, Dean. For me." Sam's eyes lifted. "So, yeah, I'm having a hard time stomaching someone who whole-heartedly believes you're some depraved serial killer. It's not fair to us. It's not fair to you."

Dean chewed his gum, looking away to avoid the wetness gathering in his lids. "Sam… They're not all wrong. I… I'm not exactly innocent."

"But, we're not what they think we are," Sam insisted. He clenched his fists at his sides. "And it's not fair, Dean. It's not fair that you'd probably do whatever you could to save those two in there, if they were ever in trouble, but they'd put you away for it. It's not fair that they don't know…"

Dean raised a finger, cutting him off. "No, Sam." Dean locked his jaw, shaking his head. "I wouldn't want them to know. Let them go on thinking that they've already seen the worse they've got to fear. Let them believe I cut up girls for kicks. It's better than screwing their lives up by trying to convince them the boogeyman exists." He paused, taking a breath before he caught his brother's eye again. "Because I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but when civilians get involved, they tend to die."

Sam looked down, frowning. "Fine." He smiled, half amused by his brother's declaration. Even if he did think it was total crap. He'd drop the subject, if only for the moment. "But do you really have to act so chummy with them?"

"Suddenly the human Care Bear has a problem with me being a good host? Guess I should scare the hell out of them even more?" Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Do me a favor, Sam. Just give Spencer, give _Dr. Reid, _a break. There's only so many intense stares one man can take before he starts fearing for his virtue."

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Seriously, Sam, all that sexual tension. It's embarrassing poor Penny. I'd tell you to take it to the back room if we had one. No such luck. But, hey, maybe I'm getting my readings wrong. Maybe all that stress is just from lil' Sammy getting a tad bit jealous cause Spence is receiving all my cool brotherly attention." Dean chuckled when Sam's fist bounced off his arm. It was quickly followed by a wince when he dodged the second blow. "_Ouch_, the truth _does_ hurt."

Sam huffed. "You are _such_ a jerk."

Dean's grin was gleaming. "And, apparently I'm bat-shit crazy, too. Quite the package, right? Speaking of which, have you noticed Penelope's -" Dean moved to raise his hands to his chest.

"Shut up, Dean." Sam brushed back his hair, determined to keep the annoyance plastered on his face. Because he sure as hell wasn't going to let Dean see how much better a few jokes made him feel. "Just, shut up."

* * *

In an age of security cameras, spotting a classic car in a small community should have proved easier. Hotch had called when Morgan had left the second station, updating him on the search status. They'd found two people who had described seeing such a vehicle on the town's main drive earlier in the morning, but the witnesses didn't have much to report on the drivers or the tags. And, unfortunately, Attalla was such a small town that street cameras weren't a viable option.

Morgan had done a double take at the information. These had to be either the stupidest or cockiest unsubs he'd been after in a long time to take out the same vehicle they used to kidnap federal employees. And, yet, they'd blended in, hiding in plain sight. Maybe the cockiness was well deserved.

To say Morgan was pissed by the time he reached the third gas station, the final stop he'd be making before reporting back to their makeshift office in the Sheriff's department, was a grave understatement.

"Yeah." The attendant scratched his stringy brown hair before scooping it behind one pierced ear. "Yeah, saw it this morning actually. Drove in right after opening. Pretty damn early for anyone who's not a trucker or headed out to the chicken plant for the shift change."

Morgan blinked, surprised at the confirmation. "Get a look at the driver?"

The attendant, Paul, as he'd muttered at the sight of a badge, leaned down onto the counter, glancing out the glass doors of the convenient store. "Sure, man. Dude paid cash, though, so no records." He pointed at the farthest pump. "Parked that cherry right there, filled her up, and came in. Bought a shit-load of food. Guess he had the munchies."

Morgan could feel his pulse throbbing against his throat. "How much food exactly?"

Paul shrugged, his eyes distant. "We got a hot bar in the morning. He waited for the food to finish cookin', then bought six or so biscuits, four orders of potato rounds. Dude bought a little bit of everything and a couple sweets, too. Which I thought was kinda weird since there wasn't any passengers in that cherry with him. Guessed he was either takin' it back home for the family or going on a long ride."

Morgan pulled out his phone on instinct, ready to call it in, but he hesitated. "Tell me you've got a security camera in here, Paul."

It was iffy. The other two stations had been big chains, but this one was the definition of Maw and Paw, live bait in a back room and a pinball machine in the corner. The shake of Paul's head wasn't entirely unexpected.

"Had one. Some sort of insurance requirement, but the recorder screwed up a few weeks ago." He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering the next part. "Someone kinda spilled some slushie drink on it." At Morgan's disbelieving expression, Paul stood a bit straighter. "But, I saw the guy. Like I said, we didn't get many customers this morning, so he stood out. I can give you a pretty good description.. 'Bout my age and height, sandy hair cut short…"

Morgan's scowl cut him off. The agent looked down at his phone, shaking his head as he scrolled through a few items. The words "long shot" didn't begin to cover it, but Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that he was right. He paused, almost rethinking the action, before holding the mobile out to the attendant.

"Paul, is this the man you saw?"

Paul huffed out a laugh. "Hells yeah, man. That's the same dude."

Morgan pulled the phone back, staring down at the picture himself. "You're absolutely sure?"

The other man's nod was dizzying. "Same shit-eatin' grin and all - didn't know they'd let you make that face when you're gettin' booked. Wicked." He said the last part with an air of respect.

Morgan frowned, giving his thanks and promising to return in a moment. His feet were already taking him outside to the oil-stained cement. Thankfully, the lot was empty, because his own eyes were glued on the cell's screen, where he'd drawn up a nearly two year old picture of one Dean Winchester.

"You've got to be kidding me…" Morgan sucked in a deep breath of cool air and tried to come up with a rational explanation as he pressed in Hotch's number. "I've got something," he began. "I know who we're looking for, Hotch. You're not going to believe this."

* * *

Spencer hadn't heard much of the fight taking place outside, but the raised voices had made their way inside as muffled shouts. He and Penelope shared a glance as they strained to make out words, especially words like "let's get rid of them."

The brothers' voices grew quiet, which was somehow more frightening than hearing them yell at one another., because it probably meant they'd come to some sort of agreement.

"Reid, honey," Penelope's own voice was at a whisper when she leaned forward, a slight tremble at her lip when she said the endearment. "I don't think you've made the best impression with the youngest Winchester. In fact, I think you might have pissed him off. Just a tad."

Spencer swallowed. "I noticed." Then, just as quickly, he shook his head in disagreement. Sam's behavior played back through his head, moment by moment. "Actually, I'm not sure if he was mad at me."

Penelope raised a brow.

Reid stared at the door, willing it to stay closed. "Not entirely. I know he was mad at me, but I think Sam was angrier with Dean. He's surprisingly aggressive toward him, but he's trying to hold it back."

"Why? Did Dean drink the last apple juice or something?"

He cocked his head to one side, his brow wrinkled. "It could mean we're getting to Dean. Or that Sam thinks we are. Maybe that's what's troubling Sam. Perhaps it isn't protectiveness so much as self preservation for Sam. You heard what Sam said about their being 'bigger and badder hunts.' If Dean's having doubts about what he's doing, or Sam thinks his brother should be doing more - "

Reid's voice broke off when he saw the door knob turn. He could almost hear the woman beside him holding her breath. Dean and Sam pushed through at the same time, both of them shaking off the chill of the winter world outside. Sam, at the very least, had lost some of the tension in his shoulders, and Reid hoped that was a good sign. And that it didn't mean that Sam had gotten his way.

Spencer watched as Dean's gaze raised, found his. For a moment, they simply locked eyes, studying one another. Then the oldest Winchester burst out laughing.

"What?" Reid couldn't stop the question from slipping out of his mouth. He turned to Garcia, wide-eyed. She shrugged, obviously not in on the joke.

"Nothin'," Dean promised, biting his cheek to hold his chuckle at bay. "Just had a funny chat about you and my little brother."

Sam elbowed him as he walked past, shooting him a glare. Dean sobered up, but not because of the gesture. His eyes had drifted back to the newspaper clippings he and Sam had collected. The faces of the two deceased Hamilton siblings were staring back at him. A hollow expression set his lips in a line, left his eyes empty. "We need to get back to work," he muttered.

Sam nodded along but crossed the room instead of stopping at the table. He switched on the television and made his way back to his seat. Knees bent, he hovered for a moment, ready to sit down, before straightening back up and grabbing Dean's shoulder.

"Look."

Reid had been so absorbed in watching the two that he hadn't heard what was playing over the television. He quickly turned to see a reporter switching over to a photograph of a sleek black car: "…Two male suspects driving what is believed to be a 1967 Chevy Impala…"

"Shit, Sammy," Dean groaned. "Looks like we're going to need to borrow another car."

Sam chewed his lip. "Easier said than done, Dean. We're kind of in the middle of nowhere."

Penelope huffed, "Borrow, you say?"

Dean shook his head, sharing a glance with his brother. "Dude, I swear, remember that kid at the motel, the one with his with his hands glued to the video game? Kept trying to take pictures of my baby when we first rolled in?"

Sam gave a snort of disbelieve. "Sure, Dean. Blame it on him."

Reid pulled his attention away from the television screen, considering his next move. "In a town this small, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted your car, Dean," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. The Impala itself had been a detail that was at the back of his mind until now. It raised a few questions to which Reid immediately formulated answers, all of them rather interesting. It would be easy to assume the Winchesters kept the car because their egos led them to believe they'd never be caught, but Reid somehow doubted this to be the case. Innocently, he continued, "Why don't you get a different vehicle? One less conspicuous."

Dean shot him a look of betrayal. "Why don't you just ask me to cut off my arm while you're at it."

Sam glanced back at Spencer, a smile in his eyes, as if the animosity he'd sent the agent's way was all but a memory. "Don't bother, Spencer. He's impossible to reason with."

Spencer was pleased with the response. He readied himself to slip in another observation about the vehicle being their father's when he caught Dean's expression. The man had turned away from the agent in disgust, looking out the window as if he were willing a magic "borrowed" car to appear. Then, out of no where, his eyes had widened, his body suddenly stiff as a board. It was a split second reaction, one Reid barely had time to contemplate. It was fear, alarm, anger, all wrapped into one.

Dean dove into his brother's side, shoving him down, out of the way of the window. The sound of the bullet seemed to register after the shatter of glass, after the spray of blood, after the thud of their bodies hitting the wooden floor.


	8. Chapter 7: We Ate Your Porridge

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Criminal Minds_ or _Supernatural._ Written for fun, not profit.

**A/N: **Those aren't our dearly disturbed Unsubs, Ricky and Glenn...

* * *

**Chapter 7 **

**We Ate Your Porridge, Bitch**

* * *

"You're sure, Walt?"

"Damn it, Roy, I trust Creedy, and if he says it's them…"

"Sure. Ok. I'll take care of it."

Roy Bridges pocketed the cell phone, the weight of the rifle across his thigh suddenly ten times more of a burden. The call had been too short _and_ too long. What surprised Roy most, though, was that he was still going to follow through, even with doubt nearly clouding his vision, he was going to do exactly what Walt said… _Goddamn Walt_. Walt, his back-up. Walt, his partner, still hours out of state and in the middle of an arms' trade. Walt, who said the decision was an easy one.

"_Take 'em out, Roy_."

Like it was something common, killing your fellow hunters. But these weren't just any hunters. These were the Winchesters. When folks got too close to the Winchesters, they ended up dead or _worse_. Roy'd heard their daddy was a pretty good fella when it came to finishing a job, and a couple years back, rumor had been the same about the boys he'd raised. But, things had changed.

Who would have imagined that he'd run into the two of them camping out in the old safe house? In, of all places, that dead hunter, Caleb's, place - another one of the Winchester's fatalities by association.

_Jesus_, _the gall they had showing up here. _

Roy ran gloved fingers over gaunt cheeks, worried and wishing for a shot of liquid bravery.

The new rumor about the renegade hunters wasn't rumor at all. It was fact. Putting aside the assortment of _maybes_ - the _maybe_ Sam Winchester was actin' a bit funny in the head, the _maybe_ the Winchesters were involved in ol' Stevie Wandell's death a few years back, the _maybe_ those dead loons Gordon and Kubrick were spot-on when they said Sam Winchester was gonna bring Hell on Earth - all that aside, the facts remained. Sam and Dean Winchester were responsible for the most recent Hell's Gate catastrophe.

And, there was the thing about Dean Winchester dying last summer. Funny, though, how he was chattin' it up on the porch, then, not three minutes ago.

Course, the most telling fact of all was about the youngest. Sam Winchester. What he'd been spotted doing to a demon. And _with_ a demon.

Roy raised the rifle and put the devil in his sights, a choking prayer at his lips.

* * *

The bright winter sun had sent the reflection his way a second too late. Dean took the dive out of instinct, grabbing his brother on the way down. He hadn't even hit the floor when it registered, really registered, that the bullet would have passed through Sam's chest. _If_ Dean had frozen up. _If _he'd still been wrapped up in talks with his hostages. _If_ he'd been another foot to the left.

Too many damn _ifs _for his liking. Anger welled up inside of him at the sudden flood of possibilities, but he pushed it down to get his bearings.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled as soon as he caught his breath. He took a solid second to shove his chin into his shoulder and glanced down the length of his body. The second declaration was louder. "_Son of a bitch!_"

He was gonna kill 'em.

Not only was there blood dripping down from his arm, but there was blood dripping onto his _leather_ jacket. Which was currently sporting a fresh tear at the upper right arm, almost directly along the seam. Dean winced…Leather was a such a pain in the ass to sew. Another _damn_.

_Yup. _"Gonna kill 'em," Dean confirmed.

"Did the FBI find us?"

Dean glanced up, relief flooding over him as he heard Sam's voice. He reached out, even though his arm was screaming for surrender, and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. Suddenly _it, _that little wall between them - the one made of secrets and deals and powers - disappeared, as if it had never existed. All Dean could see was his brother. Unscathed. Which maybe meant that he wouldn't _have_ to kill the idiot shooting at them.

"Sammy, you okay?" he asked, drawing his brother's panicked gaze.

Sam nodded, trying to scoot himself closer, a difficult feat with his long legs in the way. He grabbed hold of Dean by the elbow, locking him in a man's handshake as he held his brother's arm still. "Jesus, Dean, you're _shot_."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." He could feel his brother's grip tightening and forced a small smile. "Mr. Sharp Shooter missed, Sammy - it's just a graze. Promise."

Dean was mostly sure that was true. His mind circled back to his brother's first question, and he opened his mouth to answer when another shot rang out, busting out the upper panel of the window. The shot was wide, aiming for nothing in particular. _Just enough to keep us crawling_. The scream that followed the sound was enough to make Dean's heart jump into his throat. He'd almost forgotten the civilians.

"Not FBI," he bit. One shot, sure, leave that to the authority figures. The second said something different entirely. "Sam, get Penelope and Spencer down. _Now_."

Dean could hear Sam's argument before it left his mouth, so he shook his brother, forcing him to crane his neck, look past the table leg. They couldn't see much of the two through the furniture, but Dean got a glimpse of Penelope's face, her cheeks streaked with tears, cheeks trembling.

Sam must have seen her too, because he sucked in a breath, holding back what he was going to say, and lunged across the floor, taking half the journey on his hands and knees, the other half on his belly. It seemed like Sam reached her before Dean had a chance to blink. Her chair tilted backward, Sam cradling her head as he pushed her down. Dean realized what he was doing and nodded to himself, sliding a foot over to see if he could spot Spencer's expression.

The agent was still upright and unhurt, his head dipped low, as if he could make it disappear into his tense shoulders. His body was rigid with fear, but he hadn't cried out. Dean had a sudden memory cross through his mind, of a bank in Milwaukee, of a man whose trust he'd gained. Of a shot through a window. _Not the same, _Dean assured himself. He bit back his own outraged shout at the thought of his hostages getting hurt because an asshole (that asshole's name being Dean Winchester) had tied them up, and instead concentrated on the situation, on where the danger was coming from.

Dean trailed the direction of the shots, noting that Spencer was safe in his current location, as safe as he could be when a weapon was firing. His chair was angled so that it remained behind most of the appliances in the kitchenette, steel between him and the wall the gunman was firing toward. Penelope was angled outward though, but Dean sucked down his panic when he saw that his brother had already pulled her, still attached to her chair, gently to the floor and was currently trying to loosen her bindings - not an easy task from the angle.

_Safe. _At least for the next few minutes.

Which meant it was time for Dean to get to work. He patted himself down, pleased to find he'd left his revolver in his pocket when he'd stepped outside with Sam, even if the weapons bag and the unpacked sawed-off were laying across his cot. Dean pulled the revolver free and pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the hot flash of pain across his arm.

The assault on the cabin said a few things about their attacker. Namely that there was only one. Two gunmen would have taken a different approach entirely. Which led Dean to his second conclusion - the shooter was dumb as hell to just open fire. It sure wasn't the way he or Sam would have approached the situation. Especially, outnumbered. _Especially_, when it would have been too damn easy to just wait for him or his brother to step outside and pick the hunters off one by one.

Dean's final conclusion was that a dumb-ass had still managed to shoot him. It did nothing for his ego.

"_Winchester!_"

"Shit," Dean muttered. Because the shout had come from outside. The shooter knew who they were. Didn't that just figure? Somehow, it wasn't a complete surprise that someone trying to kill them knew their name.

Dean had ground-crawled his way to the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the cabin and pushed himself tight against it. The blown open window was only a few feet away and the cold winter was invading the room with all the quickness of a spirit.

"Kinda rude, isn't it?" Dean bellowed. He licked his lip and waited a moment before continuing. "You know our name, but we don't know yours."

The loudness probably wasn't necessary. The cabin was so quiet that Dean could have sworn he could pick out the shallow breaths of each of the three behind him. So, when Sam began to move, the floor boards practically sung. Dean winced, looking over his shoulder in pissed-off inquiry.

Sam shot him a pleading glance, telling him a plan in those two seconds of silent stare-off. Penelope was at his side, his arm around her as the two slid further away from the front wall. Sam tapped the floor once. Dean nodded in response.

He'd almost forgotten the trap door. Leave it to Caleb to install an extra hole in the floor for them to have to salt. In truth, it wasn't so much a door as a few strategically placed planks that could be lifted at once. Caleb hadn't planned for it to be a means for escape, so much as a large place to tuck away his unlicensed and more unusual weapons if the locals stopped in with questions. It was also where Sam had once hidden when he'd gotten into a fight with their dad. Dean had almost throttled the kid until Sam had pointed out that he'd obeyed his big brother - he'd never left the room, after all.

Dean really should have seen the lawyer phase coming after that.

More cold air filled the room when the planks lifted. Dean could see only shadows from where he sat, but, if he remembered the layout correctly, there was a three walled box beneath the floor. It opened up into the tight crawlspace beneath the building. Dean hoped there was still an opening at the backside of the cabin, one large enough for a person to escape through.

Sam held tight to Penelope's arms as she went feet first into the hole, giving the youngest Winchester a quick, thankful glance, before whispering something into his ear. Sam nodded and put a hand on her head, pushing her the rest of the way down. He slid the planks into place and moved to turn back to the FBI agent still strapped down to a chair.

Another shot stopped him.

"_I know what you are, Winchester! You and your brother." _

Dean glared at the window. "Good for you," he snapped.

Something Sam had brought up earlier surfaced, the comment about the cabin being taken care of, the utilities being turned on, as if someone had been using it regularly. No great surprise there. When Caleb had been alive, he'd loaned the place out to plenty of other hunters…Double shit. Their history with their fellow hunters wasn't something to brag about.

Dean suddenly understood how Goldilocks must have felt when the three bears arrived home.

Dean raised his head slightly, trying to get a decent glance at the outside world. All he could see was a graying land and cloudscape. He pulled the revolver up with him, before opening his mouth again, hoping the shooter would make the mistake of moving closer so he could take aim.

"If you know we're hunters, then why the hell are you shooting at us?"

"_I don't think a dead man should be too worried about getting shot at_."

Sam had frozen on the floor at those words, watching his brother.

Dean shut his eyes, a deep breath leaving him with nostrils flared. "It isn't what you think. You've got it all wrong." Dean swallowed, suddenly wishing the FBI agent was beside him and feeding him lines. Something told him Spencer would know how he could talk his way out of this one. Dean bit his lip when he realized the shooter moving closer also meant they weren't going to be able to move Reid to the trap door in time to hide him. "Listen, man, we've got a civilian in here with us. We need to talk about this before we both do something we'll regret."

The suggestion was met with silence. Dean swallowed the curse on the tip of his tongue, his voice strong when he opened his mouth again. "Come on, man. We're all in the same trade here, and if you knew about this cabin, then you knew Caleb. I covered his ass more than once - he ever tell you that?"

"_Caleb's dead because of you Winchesters." _

"No." Dean was sure the reply came out as more of a growl. He took another second to calm himself down. "_No_, Caleb is dead because a demon slit his throat. And, you obviously didn't know the guy too damn well if you think he'd want his friends killed in his frickin' safe house!"

Another moment of silence passed, this one longer, and Dean was sure he'd lost the guy.

"_Throw out your weapons, and we'll talk. You make a wrong move, and I'll put down you, and your civilian, too. Caleb's wishes be damned._"

Dean wasn't sure why the wording pissed him off so much, but it did. Something told him the hunter didn't really care what the Winchesters had to say, that he was only playing along for kicks. And that he'd probably kill Spencer just as quickly as he'd put down the brothers once the agent saw his face. Dean kept the anger out of his voice. "_You've got a deal,_" he called, despite himself.

The words meant something else entirely.

Sam caught his brother's eye, made sure he was watching when he slowly reached up and tucked his own pistol behind the old television set. Dean's smile was tight when he tossed his revolver out the window and stood to his feet, his palms faced out in surrender when he slowly stood, putting himself in the shooter's sights.

Dean wondered if heaven was planning to scrape his pieces off the floor when this went south. He saw the reflection off the rifle as the hunter in the woods stood from his crouch, and Dean figured the junkless douche bags upstairs would probably just point and laugh instead.

"_Roy_?" Dean scoffed. "Well, this is just embarrassing."

* * *

"So, we're chasing ghosts?"

The team stood around the desk, each of them trading glances, and though it had been Emily to finally voice the question, it was a sentiment on each of their minds.

Morgan shook his head, surprised as any of them, even though he had been the one to first suspect the Winchesters' involvement. It hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience for the agent, breaking the news to his team over the phone. He'd only arrived back at the station minutes earlier, but he'd found that Hotch had already informed the others of the gas station attendant's confirmation. Morgan didn't particularly like any situation that left this team of professionals, his family, in stunned confusion.

"Looks like," he finally voiced.

The expression on Prentiss's face came closest to a tight, bitter smile. "Guess the hunch paid off, then. Where does this leave us exactly?"

Morgan had actually expected them to fight the theory. It would make sense. Witnesses weren't very reliable in most cases. The others could have laughed at the idea of two dead criminals having a hand in the kidnappings, but, instead, they'd almost beaten him to the punch in bringing up the vehicle, the aliases, the fact that two brothers were checked into the hotel.

"Faking your death once is hard enough, twice is nearly impossible," Rossi said, his voice unusually low, as if the comment was intended only for his own benefit. The older man pinched his mustache between two fingers, lost in thought. "Is there any evidence to suggest that the father, John Winchester, might be alive as well? "

Hotch shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "There was no actual confirmation of his death. However, John Winchester's whereabouts don't seem to be related to our case. There's no reason to suspect he might have been involved."

"Then we're still looking at this as if it's one case?" Emily asked.

Hotch didn't have a chance to answer. J.J. stepped into the room and nodded once in Hotch's direction before handing him a stack of files and turning back to a projection screen the department had loaned them. She pressed the remote and it lit up, showing two wanted posters.

"The notorious Sam and Dean Winchester," she introduced with a frown.

"Did Kevin pull these up?" Morgan asked, taking one of the files.

J.J. shook her head. "He didn't have to - they were easy enough to find. Especially since I was in direct contact with the late Agent Henricksen." The answer, however, didn't seem complete, and Morgan raised a brow at it.

Hotch gave him a glance, sighing. "We'll be bouncing between a few other departmental techs at the moment. We're having… difficulties working with Kevin Lynch, and we may have to pull him from the case entirely. He's taking Garcia's abduction…"

"Badly," Morgan supplied. He felt that old rage swell up in him at the reminder that Penelope was out there, in danger. Probably hurt. Possibly dead. And now he had to two faces he could direct that anger at. His gaze was dark and steady as he watched the screen. "I don't blame Kevin," he finished.

"You know what I don't get…" Emily tapped the file with one finger, shaking her head in frustration. "I know these two men are dangerous and highly armed, but doesn't it seem a bit odd that they're attempting to control two adults and two children at the same time? Why put yourself in that situation?"

Derek pushed down the instinctive logic that told him that they wouldn't need to control four if they'd already killed two.

He felt Rossi's hand on his elbow, as if the older agent had read his mind. "We need to look at this with fresh eyes, their history in its entirely. If we have all the pieces, the profile will fit together."

Hotch gave him a curt nod and turned back to J.J. "We need to study the Winchesters from the beginning."

J.J. nodded, pressing another button for the next page. "To tell the truth, a good chunk of what Agent Henricksen provided was based on speculation. That's not to say his profiling was entirely wrong, but…"

"Fresh eyes," Rossi repeated, nodding in understanding. "We'll have to sort through it as we go."

Emily pursed her lips. "We don't have time for this," she said, her voice low.

Morgan could understand where Prentiss was coming from. She'd been in the car with the last kid, after all. He'd been her responsibility. Even if no one was blaming her, she was taking Michael's disappearance hard, counting every minute he was gone. Derek ran a hand over his slick head, not sparing her a glance, his concentration once more on the two criminals painting the screen.

"We don't have a choice," he replied.

* * *

Gray clouds had shifted and the afternoon sun was streaming in, warming the cooled cabin, ever so slowly, as the players moved across the board and into their places.

The single room was quiet but for the crunch of his boots against broken glass. He actually wished the footfalls would make even more noise. Though, he hadn't heard a peep yet, Sam was far too aware of the fact that Penelope was hiding beneath the floor boards. The only player going against the rules. One creak and the stranger would panic. All it would take was one absent shot downward and…

Sam wasn't going to think about that. Time to concentrate on the people with a gun still trained on them. Himself included.

He wasn't pleased with the turn of events. Or with his brother's decision to play along with the shooter. And he sure as hell wasn't happy when the shooter had the good sense to have them dump their weapons bag on the porch (Sam had taken a moment to knock the sawed-off under the blankets before he'd complied), but what really put the cherry on top were the words leaving his brother's mouth.

"So, Roy, how you enjoying your life?" Dean asked, a shit-eating grin breaking his face in two. "You know, the life you wouldn't have if we hadn't saved your ass a few years back?" Dean shrugged his left shoulder, favoring it. The move didn't go unnoticed by Sam, and it sent a flush of anger over his face. Roy, whoever-the-hell-he-was, had shot his brother. He'd pay.

"This is business, Winchester."

Dean gave a broken laugh. "Remember what I said about this being a thankless job, Sam? Meet exhibit A."

Roy wasn't taking the bait. The other hunter had barely stepped onto the porch, his body posed, ready to make a dive for it, when he'd asked that "both" brothers show their hands.

Sam had expected more, though he wasn't sure why. The man, wild-eyed and wet lipped, was thin, shorter than Dean, and scraggly, the hat on his head leaving his ears sticking out of his head. Not that you could judge a person based on their appearance. But, this was a human, and if his shots and strategy were any indication, an inferior hunter. Sam could understand his brother's earlier sentiments. This _was_ embarrassing.

"So, you know each other?" Sam asked, directing the question at Dean. Because Sam sure as hell didn't recognize the guy. Which meant Dean had probably met him when he was either very young or after Sam had left for Stanford.

"Oh, yeah, Roy and I go way back," Dean replied, his tone that of a man sitting at the bar, kicking back a shot. If anything, Dean's natural cockiness found more fuel when he was injured. "Only met the one time, but it was a fairly significant one time, wasn't it, Roy?"

"Take a step back," Roy demanded. His rifle was hanging across his back now, traded in for a handgun. He pulled up the smaller weapon, aiming it at Sam, either because his size made him the bigger threat or because he suddenly didn't want to meet Dean's eye. "Back."

Roy pushed forward, cautiously.

Dean took a step back and a step over, trying to put himself in Roy's line of sight again. "See, Sammy, Roy here was chasing a chupacabra that had made its way into mid-Louisiana. Guess the goats weren't worth suckin' there, 'cause it had taken out a little old lady along with the livestock. Dad and I were passing through…gave Roy a hand. 'Course, Roy probably doesn't remember most of it since he was passed out and pretending to be puppy chow at the time…Heard you got yourself a partner to keep you from screwing the pooch again. A Walt Timber, right? Where is old Walt?"

"Shut up!" Roy's jaw tightened and he swung the weapon back on Dean.

"Got a feeling," Dean added, "that your buddy isn't close by or else he'd be here to back you up. How many hours out is he?"

Roy's eyes narrowed, his grip tight on the weapon. "He'll be here soon."

"Fair enough." Dean smirked at the move, pleased with himself. "Still, our dad saved your ass, Roy. This how you repay him?"

"This ain't about him," Roy said. "This is about you two. I know what you've done, and somebody's got to take care of the mess you made. Nothing personal to it. If John were around, he'd do the same."

"That's kinda vague, Roy," Dean replied. "Gotta be more specific. What mess? And how are you planning to clean it up?" There was a dangerous edge to Dean's smile, one Sam could spot with just a glance to his profile. Roy really shouldn't have said that last part. Not if he planned on making it out without losing a few limbs. "Oh, and what the hell is it you think you'd do like our dad?"

Sam slid his foot back, gaining a better stance. The options at the moment were pretty clear. Spare knife in the boot, sawed-off on the cot to his right, or the revolver behind the television behind them. Taking advantage of the options was the hard part, where Dean's go-to plan of "chat 'em up until they're sloppy" came into play. A part of Sam wondered if he needed the weapons. If there was some other way to handle Roy, some other use of his _strengths_… it worked on demons. He'd moved things before. With the practice Ruby had been giving him, maybe he could… Sam squashed the thought. No. _No. _He wouldn't try that. Not again. Especially not in front of Dean.

It happened before Sam had a chance to realize what his step backwards had done: Roy's eyes found Reid. The FBI agent who was still strapped to his chair, defenseless. _Crap. _

Reid was watching the three of them, his constant curiosity showing in the fold of his brow. Even though it was chilly, there was sweat glittering from the agent's temples. Sam suddenly felt a wave of guilt rush over him. The guy, the one he'd been shooting dirty looks at for most of the day, was probably scared out of his mind right about now.

"Told you we had a civilian in here," Dean said, stopping Roy from sweeping his gun Reid's way. The glint in Dean's eye was begging the shoddy hunter to move forward, just a little further, so that he'd be within lunging distance.

Roy's lowered his head some, more wired than he had been earlier. His eyes quickly traced the floor, as if looking for a devil's trap before they shot back to the Winchesters. "If he's a civilian, why's he tied up?"

"He's just some guy who tried to report us," Sam answered, before his brother had a chance. "Got in our way while we were on a case, so we're keeping him here until we can get out of dodge. He's not a threat."

"Shit." The word had slipped from Roy. He chewed his cheek, losing some of the confidence. "Shit," he muttered again. His hand stayed steady, though, raising to train on Sam's forehead.

Sam realized where the rush of sudden panic was coming from. The idiot could be identified now. "We warned you there was a civilian in here," Sam bit. "You're the one who chose to ignore that fact."

"He's seen me," Roy said. His right arm twitched, as if begging to move, begging to point the gun back at the man tied to a chair.

Sam could feel Dean's body tighten, ready to make a move. Because in one tic, this guy had just went from threatening to hurt his brother to threatening to kill his brother and an innocent along with him. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. Dean would sacrifice himself in an instant to stop Roy from making that move, of that Sam was certain.

_God, Dean, just give me more time._

"You said we could talk!" Sam snapped, hoping it would break Roy from his thoughts. "Why the hell did you try to shoot us?"

"Fine." Roy turned his attention back to the brothers, raising his chin, suddenly confident in himself again. He tilted his head in Dean's direction. "You want to talk? Start by explaining how he's alive. Walt knows for a fact that Dean Winchester had a blow-out with some big-time demon 'bout last Spring. Killed and dragged down to Hell, is what they're saying. Lots 'a hunters been reporting back about you, too, Sam, how you were throwin' yourself around afterward, acting dangerous. And keeping strange company…"

Sam's back straightened. His glare alone was enough to push back most men, but Roy was too stupid or too stubborn to be stopped by a glare.

And Dean…

Dean started laughing.

"Christ, Roy!" Dean slapped his stomach, throwing his head back in amusement. He cleared his throat, as if trying to hold the chuckles inside. "_Seriously_? Seriously, is that what this is about?"

Sam was pretty sure he looked as puzzled as Roy, but the other hunter was staring at Dean now, even if the gun was still pointed at Sam.

Sam could feel his adrenaline building, his body humming and ready to make a move as Dean became the distraction. He held tight for a moment, waiting for Dean to string the guy further along.

"Dude, you're only half right." Dean was grinning. It was the same smile he wore at the pool tables. "There _was_ a hell of demon on my ass. Had a hard time shaking her, too, but we did. Faked my death, as a matter of fact. By the time she figured it out, I was long gone. Sammy and I had to keep separate for a while until we could take out her minions, but we were doin' fine." His green eyes lowered when he paused, the humor all but lost. "That was, until some dumbass with a cause decided I was one smokin' hot zombie."

Sam was ready.

The gunshot was a surprise. Roy had moved quickly, giving the Winchesters the first glimpse of his own abilities as a hunter. He put two bullets into the floor at Sam's feet, missing his boots by inches. Sam jumped back, his hands up in surrender, the lunge forgotten.

Roy had the gun raised again already, still on Sam, aimed far from his shoes this time. There was a grimace at his lips that said as clear as day that he was proud to be responsible for Sam's shocked expression. "I said _don't _move."

"No."

The word was heartbreaking and had dripped from Reid's mouth like a tear. Sam shot him a look, his own eyes as wide, if not as wounded as the agent's.

_Penelope. _

"Roy," Sam breathed the name. He knew what the agent had thought, too, that there was a chance the tech girl was somewhere beneath those wooden planks, bleeding out. Sam let out a broken sound, too hard to be a sob, and glared back at Roy. "_That_," he said, "was a mistake."

Roy's finger twitched, his shoulder hitching. He ignored Sam entirely. "Sure, Dean," he replied, his voice calmer than it had been. Arrogant and dead-set. "That's a possibility, I suppose, but it doesn't change the rest…it doesn't change the part where Sam's been playing around with evil, does it?"

Sam felt his blood turn to ice. Just for a moment, he thought Roy might actually know about his new habit.

"You let loose the demons at the devil's gate, didn't you, Sam? You're working with them… That's what Walt says, and I believe him." Roy didn't turn Dean's way when he addressed him. "I'm sorry, Dean. I hate to do this, but even if you're telling the truth, I can't let your brother go. And, I certainly can't let your _civilian_ go until I know he's not one of your new demon buddies." Roy shook his head, his arm raising a half inch. "I really am sorry. Nothing personal," he assured.

The _thud_ wasn't the sound of a trigger being pulled.

Roy's eyes rolled back into his head, his knees giving out beneath him. Sam dove for the gun before he even realized what had happened. Feeling the flesh-warmed metal against his palm, he glanced up from his spot on the floor in shock.

Penelope was standing a few feet from where Roy had been. She let the piece of firewood in her hands fall to the floor and took a step back, moving her dirty fingers up to her lips. Silent tears slid down her face and her body shook with a tremor that Sam was certain wasn't caused by the half-frozen mud caked onto her knees and elbows.

Dean whistled, impressed enough to circle to her side for a better view of the damage. He was holding his arm tight against his body. "Damn, Penny. You're like a hot Rambo."

Penelope's chin shook as she tried to control her voice. "Just," she begged, "please, t-tell me he's not dead."

Roy was already stirring, though. Sam straddled his back before he could get to his feet, holding the other hunter's arms against his spine at a painfully awkward angle. With a grunt, the youngest Winchester gestured for someone to hand him a few zip-ties. Roy let loose a slew of muttered curses, but Sam only smiled up at Penelope in return, looking a little dazed from the turn of events.

"Are you _sure_ you're just a computer technician?"

* * *

**End Chapter Notes: **Yup, bad hunters. There sure are plenty of people in their line of business who want Dean and Sam on the chopping block. From Gordon, Kubrick, and Creedy earlier on, to the guys in "Free to be You and Me" and "Dark Side of the Moon." Speaking of which, that happens to be where I pulled Roy from. This little encounter is my excuse for how Dean recognized Roy's voice in "Dark Side of the Moon," and knew he had a partner named Walt.**  
**


	9. Chapter 8: In for a Penny

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Criminal Minds or **__**Supernatural**_**. This is written for funsies, not money. **

**A/N: I can't possible apologize enough for that break . Suffice it to say, original fiction writing tries to steal my soul on a weekly basis ("a rejection a day keeps the ego away"), and it usually leaves me with just enough gusto to put out a one-shot, but I'm back now, thanks entirely your enthusiastic emails, personal messages and reviews. Let's see if I can scrape off the rust and get this baby moving again, shall we? How about a quick recap-**

**Last time on **_**I See a Darkness**_**: Setting, Season 4. The BAU team knows the Winchesters are in town and are looking back over their history. Meanwhile, the real unsubs , ghost-Glenn and Ricky, have two children at their disposal. After a bad encounter with another hunter, Dean took a flesh wound to the arm, and Penelope Garcia, after escaping under the cabin, came back to take Roy-the-hunter out of the equation with a piece of fire wood. Which was liberating, except for the part where she and Reid are still stuck in a cabin the "delusional" Winchester brothers. Which is less liberating, one might imagine.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: **

**In for a Penny, In for a Pound**

* * *

The blood was prettier than the tears, but it dried too quickly, spread out too thin. Ricky ran one hand over the other, scratching away what was caught in the crevices between his fingers. It rolled off the skin like sweat and dirt, in small, gummy balls. Made him itch, too.

"Least they're both boys this time," Ricky observed.

His voice seemed loud in the otherwise empty room. Past the closest wall, someone was crying. Ricky couldn't tell which of the children it was making a ruckus. They'd been put together during the last lesson. A few minutes in the same room would make the coming separation hurt worse. If they took to the lesson. If little Michael and little Tommy had learned anything at all…Ricky could never tell if it was soaking in until the very last blow.

"Doesn't really matter," Glenn replied. "Not if they aren't right."

His arrival was a tide of ice water over Ricky's clothed back. There was some comfort found in the chill it left behind, but Ricky pushed those thoughts away, a manic gleam to his bright eyes.

"But,_ Glenn_, we said they were_ perfect_." Ricky licked his bottom lip, trembling against the cold when his big brother's image flickered, reappearing closer, the scent of atmosphere he brought with him overwhelming. "These two—we can use these two. I'm sure of it."

Ricky's finger slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, reaching for the chain at his neck, but Glenn caught his wrist. "Not while your hands are dirty," the ghost hissed, glaring at the red stain. The hardness of his expression was lost in a moment though, the grasp loosening, a thumb drawing circles on the other man's knuckles. "Now, don't you worry, Ricky. I'd never let anything happen to you, would I?"

Ricky slowly shook his head. "I just…I just think we're running out of time."

Glenn smiled, looking young. Looking almost alive, despite the gray of his hue, the molt of his lips. "Everything'll be alright again," he assured. "It will. But not until we find the perfect pair."

"And if the boys aren't it?"

Glenn's teeth looked sharp, yellowed, in the faint light. His image flickered again as he leaned in close. "Then, we'll do what we've always done. We'll teach them their lesson. We'll teach them what brotherhood is about. We'll teach them what they did _wrong_. Then we'll find two more, and teach them, too. We've still got time, Ricky. _You've_ still got time to get this right, for both our sakes. In the end, it'll be worth the effort, I promise."

Ricky mirrored the grin, his worry lost. "You know best."

"Big brothers always do."

* * *

"Okay, you're fine, everything's fine," Penelope muttered, her fingers trembling as she raised the rag to her face, scrubbing at a spot of mud she'd missed. She tried to _not_ concentrate on her own image staring back at her through the mirror, because she was fairly certain she was two shades too pale, eyes red-rimmed from tears. A shaking, sputtering, panicked mess who'd been hogging the bathroom for what had to be nearly forty minutes. "You're a-okay, Penny. Crazy Guy the Third isn't dead. You didn't kill him, and he didn't kill you. A-okay…"

And she wondered why she was standing here, back in this cabin, in the first place. Despite her insistence to the contrary, Reid had made it clear, very much so, that he wanted her to run if she could, and Sam had given her the perfect opportunity with the trap door. But, she'd hesitated, first to wait and see if the brothers would send Spencer down, too. Then, when they didn't, to listen through the slatted walls and thin windows of the shack. Roy-gun-happy, the Winchesters seemed to know, but knowledge alone hadn't made him any less of a threat.

Still, hobbling to favor one leg and chilled by the winter air, she could have made off. Found the nearest road. By now the team would be on the lookout. They or the locals would find her quickly. The distraction was definitely to her advantage.

Instead, she'd found a tarp-covered stack of firewood and, ignoring the pile of guns on the front porch, lifted her own blunt weapon free. Instinct took over the moment she realized that this stranger, Roy, was going to shoot. That he wasn't going to leave anyone behind. Not Sam, not Dean…not Spencer. She'd spent a middle-school semester in softball (torture, as she'd regaled to J.J.), and put the memory of swinging a bat to good use. Home run.

"I can't believe that happened."

She'd brought a chunk of wood to a gunfight. She let that thought settle and nearly hyperventilated.

The sound of the knock at the bathroom door made her jump. She gripped at her chest, taking a breath, and reminding herself that the noise wasn't the ring of a gunshot. "Y-yes?"

"_Hey, Penny, you decent?"_

Penelope recognized the rasp of Dean's voice and forced herself to suck in another calm breath. She wanted to tell him to go away, but that wasn't what left her mouth: "When am I ever?"

Dean chuckled, opening the door, and peaking in, cautiously. "I hear it's polite to ask," he noted, catching her eye. For a moment, he seemed shaken by her appearance, but he covered it with a smooth smile. "You were pretty bad ass back there," he reminded her. "Definitely scored one for team Hot Geek."

"Is that guy…?" Penelope swallowed, squeezing the wet towel in her hand. Despite herself, stepped back, nearly collapsing onto the toilet's lowered lid cover. "Is he still out there?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, Roy doesn't seem to play well with others, so Sammy and I put him in the shed out back."

Penelope's eyes widened. "He's still alive, though, right?"

Dean held her gaze, the humor gone from his eyes, as if he heard the question circling her mind, _"Did you kill him while he was unconscious_?" He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking on someone in the other room, and slipped a little further into the bathroom, letting the door close behind him. Penelope knew she should be scared, backed into a four-foot room with, well, _The_ Dean Winchester, but, instead, she was hanging on his expression, watching for any slip. Anything that would tell her if his answer was a lie.

"Roy's still alive," Dean finally replied. He dropped down to one knee, holding his right arm tight against his side. "How's your ankle?"

But, Penelope was starring at his arm, tracing it back up to his neck, chin, eyes. He was a shade paler himself, and his shirt had been changed, the lump of a bandage just barely visible beneath one sleeve. "You're pretty calm for someone who was shot," she answered.

Dean's lips curled. "Oh, hell, that? Bee sting. Sam patched me up." He winked. "Yeah, I know, bad day. First you get shot at by an idiot, then you miss seeing me with my shirt off."

Penelope snorted and slapped his good arm playfully. "I always miss all the fun."

Then, she froze, eyes wide as she recapped on what she'd just done. To Mr. Murder/Torture/Grave Desecration. She felt panic building up again and swallowed it down, realizing the most disturbing part of it all was that she wasn't more worried about setting him off.

If Dean noticed, he didn't let her know, still playing along with the flirt. "I'll get you tickets to the next show," he assured, eyes back on her foot. For the first time, she noticed the roll of Ace bandages in his other hand. "Crap, I should have done this earlier. Still not broken, though. That's a plus."

His prodding sent a shock of pain all the way up to her knee, and she winced. Her foot was swelling into cankle-grade territory and slightly discolored. It was a wonder she would walk on it. "Wasn't that bad this morning," she said, watching him loosely pull the roll around her ankle with ease. "But I kind of slipped in the mud trying to find my way out the trap door. I might have made it worse."

"I'll get some ice out of the cooler. I guess this is the reason you decided not to make a run for it?" Dean paused a moment before shrugging of his own comment. "Personally, I'm kind of glad you came back, not that we didn't already have a plan for taking out Roy, of course."

Penelope caught the smile in his voice and rolled her eyes. "Sure you did."

His movements were practiced, quick, and she considered his skills and Sam's "patch" of the bullet wound. The two men had to take care of many injuries, apparently. It wasn't something that Reid had brought up. "Did Sam give you stitches?"

Dean nodded, still preoccupied by the task. "Kid has a good bedside manner when he's not pissed at you. Too bad for me."

Penelope forced a crooked smile, but it wavered. "I heard…I heard that man say something about demons. Does he believe…I mean, does he do what you do? Look for those kinds of things?"

Dean, finished, stood, holding her gaze. He seemed to be mulling it over. "Yeah," he finally replied. "He _believes_ in the crazy crap we believe in. That's what you wanted to ask, right? Listen, Penny…" He blinked, shook his head, denying himself something. "I could sit here all day, talk to about monsters and ghosts and demons. But I'm not going to, because I like you too much to get you wrapped up in this crap."

It was the final word, and Penelope took it. "You want to know what I believe, Dean? I believe you're not a murderer."

He smiled back, but the expression was strained, weary. "Just a nutjob?"

"Maybe not even that," she said, unsure if she meant it.

Dean shrugged it off, pretending not to hear, and held the door open for her. Before she could make it into the other room, he leaned in close, whispering a reply. "It's okay, Penny. Even I think we're crazy sometimes. Life would be easier that way."

Then he sauntered past her, leading her back into the main room like she was a guest instead of a hostage. Penelope spotted Reid quickly enough, in his usual seat after a round of stretching his legs, his eyes wide as he scanned Penelope, looking for any injuries she might have received since her long trip to the bathroom. Sam stepped in front of him, blocking his view and gesturing for Penelope to sit down so he could secure her restraints.

"It won't be for much longer," he assured.

She shivered, despite herself, before plopping down for the youngest Winchester. Sam went to work on her upper arms, and she couldn't help but notice how his hands were still stained pink from Dean's blood.

"We've got a few hours longer we can stay here," Dean said, stepping back to their work table, his attention on getting their notes back in order and sweeping the glass out of their way.

At some point, one of the two had tacked a blanket over the shot-out window to keep the winter air outside. It didn't help much. The room was still frigid, even though the heater was glowing at full blast. Penelope imagined the man, Roy, was probably freezing out in the shed. If Dean had been telling the truth about him being alive and all.

Sam finished up with Penelope and stood, shooting his brother a glance. "Before Roy's partner arrives?"

Dean nodded. "My guess is that if Walt were any closer, he'd have told Roy to wait before charging in guns a-blazing. So, like I said, a couple hours. At least."

"Then where are we supposed to go?" Sam huffed, stepping around the still-wet floor where someone had tried to quickly mop up the splatter of blood. "We can't very well drag these two to a cheap motel and pick up the hunt again."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, Sam, looks like you're going to get your wish. We'll ditch this hunt if we haven't found the bastards by then." Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the pair, winking at Penelope in a way which clearly said that wasn't an option. Penelope wasn't sure if the gesture was supposed to calm her nerves. It didn't. He must have realized as much, and his voice softened. "Either way, when we leave this cabin, you two are going free. You can go back to your fellow g-men and chase down all the bad guys whose names don't start with Win."

Penelope snorted. "Nice."

"I try."

* * *

Morgan leaned back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to indulge the exhaustion tugging at his mind for the past half hour. He'd never been the type to be satisfied with desk work, no matter how fruitful, but desk work that didn't seem to hold any promise? It was beyond frustrating, being stuck here while four people were missing. Frustration, though, was somehow better than the pure terror of stopping in his tracks and taking the time to think about what the Winchesters could be doing to Garcia and Reid, or those poor kids. As soon as he felt the nudging of that deep seeded fear, he sat up straight again, shaking off his weariness and snatching up the top paper folder again.

The team was missing something. They were missing _several_ somethings, which was the problem. John Winchester had done an expert job of keeping his sons moving throughout their childhood, but, even still, the team should have had enough info to scrape together another, more useful, profile, if only the actions of the brothers weren't so damn contradictory.

A stack of papers slapped together, and Morgan raised a brow at the sound, realizing it had come from Rossi, who'd just slammed down his own pile of files after striding back into the room.

"This has got to be the most aggravating criminal history I've ever come tried to gather." He waved his hand, catching Hotch and Prentiss's attention as well. "I just got off the phone with Det. Diana Ballard."

Prentiss cocked her head, then flipped back a page in her file. "The same Det. Ballard who arrested the Winchesters in Baltimore?"

"The one and only," Rossi said, scowling. "I wondered why Agent Henricksen didn't have more than the transcript of Dean Winchester's confession, since his people had obviously attempted to contact the Baltimore office. Now I know why."

Hotch frowned. "I assume from your reaction that Det. Ballard wasn't helpful."

"I expected her to not be very forthcoming since, from what I understood, the Winchesters' escape, on top of her late partner's dirty laundry coming out, was considered quite the embarrassment for her department. What I _didn't_ expect was for her to sound so _pleased_ when I confirmed that the brothers were still alive."

Morgan found himself being drawn back into the conversation. "Pleased?"

Rossi nodded along, as if he didn't quite believe it either. "She laughed. In _relief_. As if that wasn't strange enough, she clammed up the moment I suggested the Winchesters were our serial killers. I didn't get another word from her that wasn't directly from the report."

Hotch's brow wrinkled in thought. "Then we can assume that Agent Henricksen's conclusion that the brothers had somehow persuaded her to aid them was more than speculation. Which is, unfortunately, becoming a pattern. There are conflicting reports surrounding each of their arrests and attempted arrests."

"No kidding." J.J. said, striding back into the room. The pinched expression on her face mirrored Rossi's. "If you think that's frustrating, try getting a detailed account of Dean Winchester's 'death' in St. Louis. I made some calls and it turned out that the corpse identified as his had already been exhumed once, after the bank incident in Milwaukee, and it was, and I quote, 'suffering from an extreme case of advanced decomposition'. Somehow it was so contaminated that they couldn't even pull DNA off it. This case just gets stranger and stranger. Why haven't we ever been put on their trail before?"

Hotch sighed, and Morgan caught it, the way the man was avoiding their eyes. "Good question," Morgan said, frowning.

"Truthfully, up until a year ago, Agent Henricksen had all but taken over their cases." He shook his head, hesitant to continue. "And, as of right now, the Section Chief doesn't know we're officially pursuing the Winchesters. She believes we're still working with our original unsub profile."

Morgan leaned across the table. "Hotch, are you saying Strauss doesn't want us following this lead?"

Hotch leveled him with a stare. "I'm saying she suggested we not pursue dead suspects, and she reacted with some hostility when I suggested otherwise."

"That doesn't sound like Erin," Rossi added, sitting down with the rest of the group. "Is she getting orders from higher up?"

"I can't say for certain." Hotch shook his head. "And frankly, we don't have time to discuss it with her further. We need to concentrate on finding the Winchesters. I don't need to remind you all, but our window is closing."

Morgan felt a chill run down his spine. He knew what Hotch meant—their time was running out if they had a chance in Hell of finding all four of their victims alive. Whatever rage he'd felt brewing was quickly squashed by the need to get back to work. Only, he still didn't know what direction to take this manhunt in…

"What do we know for sure?" he whispered. He cleared his throat, speaking louder. "The Winchesters had to have been in town longer that Pierce, the motel clerk, can account for, which would make sense, since obviously they have a secondary location where they're keeping their victims."

Prentiss pursed her lips. "True, since that's why we originally presumed they were locals, but—"

The door to the small office opened once more, Sheriff McKinney standing in the frame, as if he felt he were intruding. The young man looked haggard, aged a good ten years over the last few days. Morgan realized that he hadn't even spoken to the sheriff for the past few hours, not since he and his men had spread out, looking for witnesses who might have spotted the Impala.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just had an interesting conversation with the statey who was in the car with Agent Prentiss when the Gravitt boy was abducted. He seemed to recall a similar case where two siblings were murdered a few years back, over in Bomer County—that's 'bout two hours from here. I had their sheriff fax over the file." He reached out, handing the file folder to Hotch. "You're all gonna want to take a look at this."

A crash sounded from outside the door and with it came raised voices. "Damn it," the sheriff muttered. He shook his head, gesturing for the agents to stay. "The Gravitt boys' dad is back—drunk as a skunk again. I need to handle this."

He shut the door behind him, leaving the team silent as Agent Hotchner poured over the paperwork. The minute stretched on forever before he closed the folder and slid it to across the table to Morgan. Morgan snatched it up. As soon as his eyes skimmed the report inside, he realized why the Unit Chief had remained so quiet.

Prentiss shifted, trying to read over Morgan's shoulder. "Hotch?" she asked, one brow raised.

"It appears there might have been more than six murders committed by our unsubs."

Morgan swallowed, taking in the bare facts. Two siblings dead, just as the sheriff had said, tortured and dumped in the same manner as their current victims. Gruesome photos of the youngest of the pair had been found, but the locals at the time hadn't known what to make of them. They'd been found nearly two years ago. His eyes shot up as he passed the info on to Rossi.

"This doesn't make any sense—why start two years ago, and then come back now and commit multiple murders all in one small town?"

Rossi shook his head. "This doesn't fit what we know about the Winchesters…They're practically nomadic. Wait… Did you notice this date?"

Hotch nodded, running a finger over his bottom lip. "Based on estimated time of death, Sam and Dean Winchester couldn't have committed that crime."

Morgan flipped through the other file just to be sure. "Because they were reportedly holding up the City Bank of Milwaukee at the time…What the hell?" He shook his head, adamantly denying what the facts told them. "This doesn't necessarily mean that…John Winchester could have been began the…" But even as he said it, he caught Hotch's eye and saw the doubt lying there.

"What if there's a monster?"

Morgan blinked, his attention turning back to J.J., who was propped against the end of the table, staring into space. She brought her attention back to earth, as if she'd just then realized that she'd spoken aloud. "Uh—not a real monster, I mean…"

Prentiss snapped her fingers, smiling up at her. "Of course—not a real monster, but a _perceived_ monster! Most of Henricksen's profile might have been speculation at best, but based on what we know, it appears the Winchesters really are delusional. They believe they're hunting monsters. If you grew up looking for the boogiemen, what would you think of these brutalized bodies being found?"

Rossi cocked his head. "Then there might actually be a serial killer, or multiple serial killers, who fit our original profile, and the Winchesters are here to find them? Well…I don't have a better idea. But, are we saying the unsubs we're after don't have Reid and Garcia?"

Morgan felt something in his chest jerk. He let out a shaky breath. "They're alive." The words pulled the eyes of the others. "Think about it—the contradictory statements…If the Winchesters don't see a person as something evil, then they try to protect them. That's why so many witnesses have reported being helped by the Winchesters."

"Reid and Garcia's chances are much better now," Hotch agreed. "It's far more likely that Reid identified one of the brothers at the motel…If they're not our unsubs, then it's likely the Winchesters abducted our people because they wanted to continue the hunt, not because they wanted to hurt them."

Rossi nodded. "That_ is_ good news. But, it still means we've got two young boys who are in immediate danger. We need to find the real unsubs, and fast—the Winchesters might already be ahead of us."

* * *

Reid couldn't stop staring at the two bullet holes in the floor, as if they were to blame for the last hour and a half of his life making no sense. As much as he wanted to turn his brain off, forget his sole weapon, the profile, for a bit, he couldn't, which was why he found himself focusing on the shattered wooden planks at the center of the floor. When he finally made the conscious decision to lift his eyes from them, he moved his attention to Penelope's silhouette.

She was slightly slack-jawed, her head tilted to one side as she watched the talk show playing on the local channel, being periodically interrupted by news segments. Her foot was propped up on the stool, a towel filled with melting ice placed on her ankle. Something about her was different. She was more resolved to their situation; whether that was a positive or negative thing, Reid wasn't sure. What he did know what that Penelope had believed Dean when he'd told them they'd be freed soon.

Reid wasn't so sure, but he wanted to believe it. He could even rationalize why the delusional Winchesters would let them go, but he didn't think the decision was set in stone simply because of the unpredictability of the situation. Point in hand, over an hour ago, a strange man had appeared and threatened to kill him. A man who also believed in demons.

Roy believed himself to be a hunter.

Reid didn't want that fact to sink in, because it led to so many questions he knew he couldn't ask without making Sam Winchester angry with him again… And yet, Sam had tried to free Penelope during the exchange with the other hunter, and Sam had reacted with that now-familiar anger when he'd thought Penelope had been hurt by Roy. Reid couldn't ignore the protective reaction from both the brothers. They'd tried to save their hostages, despite the danger to themselves.

Reid wasn't sure what to make of it, but he certainly couldn't shrug off their behavior because it was convenient.

He glanced away from Penelope, realizing that she was purposely not paying him any mind, and spotted Sam behind the table, working on a map. It was fairly close to the type of geographic profile Reid would have created, and he'd admit it was impressive. Dean was sitting on the bed, packing salt into shotgun rounds like he'd been doing it most of his life. Reid was afraid that might be true.

"Are there many hunters?"

Both brothers looked up with dazed expressions, as if they'd forgotten Reid existed. Neither had spoken to the agent in over thirty minutes, keeping the chatter low and between themselves, as if they were for some reason hesitant to ask for his opinion now. Maybe they were afraid Reid would start asking questions again. They weren't wrong.

"Uh. Not really," Dean answered, and quickly went back to work, ignoring the warning glance Sam shot his way. "You hungry, thirsty?"

Reid shook his head, noting the deflection. He couldn't stop himself from trying again. "Did you fake your death a third time as well?"

Dean dropped the shell in his hand, spilling salt over his legs. "Huh?"

But his expression was clear enough. He'd heard the agent, and his eyes answered more efficiently than his mouth.

"Roy said you reportedly died last Spring." _And you lied when you told him you'd faked it._ Reid shivered, and tried to hide the fact that he'd seen Dean flinch. The implications were clear enough. Whatever happened to Dean, whatever that supposed 'demon' who'd been after him had done... It was what was causing the man to have nightmares. It was what had Sam behaving like the dominant of the pair. And, it was what had changed between the brothers.

Most disturbingly, whatever had happened to him, Dean equated it to dying.

Dean forced a chuckled. "You and that super memory of yours... Can you really remember everything we said?"

Reid realized Dean was going to brush the comment off. He was prepared to continue when Sam shot up out of his seat, grabbing Dean's attention.

Sam was breathless with excitement. "The earliest case—the one we dismissed because it didn't quite fit…"

"Back up, college boy. Which case?" Dean put down his tools and stepped across the room. "Did you find something?"

Reid didn't have to try hard to listen in, and he knew without looking that Penelope was craning her neck to watch the pair. Sam was too caught up in the information to restrain himself, and Reid was more than pleased to hear what he had to say—he hadn't managed to get the brothers to bring up the earlier cases they'd mentioned the previous night.

"Okay, remember when we put together that those earlier cases were related to the current ones? Well, I found that report from eight years ago, and we decided it didn't fit in because the two siblings, a teenage boy and his sister, were killed at separate times, separate places. Remember?"

"Yeah…but it didn't—"

"I know we banked on it being a coincidence but…" He lifted the map up for Dean. "The other early cases, the ones that started about two years ago, took place a couple counties away and were spaced out by months, almost like these guys were trying to keep a low profile."

"Keep the attention away from this area," Dean agreed.

"Exactly. But when they sped up their kills, each pair of victims was from this county, and their remains were left close to Attalla. That case from eight years ago was in Attalla, too, though, and the neighborhood it took place in is at the dead center of all the dump sites."

Dean made a face. "Kind of a sloppy job of covering their tracks isn't it?"

"Well, maybe…but we know they specifically chose their victims, right? They studied them, so they didn't have much of a choice when it came to where to kidnap them from…"

Reid straightened, following along. "The dump sites would have been entirely_ their_ choice, though. Was there any other reason you disregarded the case from eight years ago?"

The room went silent. Dean and Sam shared look, as if holding a silent conversation. Finally, they seemed to reach an agreement.

Sam cleared his throat. "It was a teenage boy and a young woman. Siblings. Both murdered within two days of one another. No one was ever charged. That much fit, but they were killed separately, bodies left where the murders took place, about two miles apart, and there wasn't any sign that any pictures or video of the torture were left behind."

Reid leaned forward as much as the rope holding his upper arms would allow. "But there was definitely torture?"

Dean frowned. "The article we found wasn't very descriptive, but all the keywords were there in that quaint, small-town journalist kind of way."

"And the youngest sibling was killed first?" Reid asked. When he saw Sam nod, he chewed his bottom lip in thought. "I think you're right. I think the case must be related."

It was as if someone had flipped a switch. Reid wasn't sure when it had happened, but at some point he had quit believing the Winchesters were the unsubs they were looking for…Garcia had been right, they weren't good guys exactly, and they needed to be apprehended for their own safety. Also, they were still _severely_ delusional. But, all his profiling knowledge kept pointing him away from the pair of brothers, and he'd been denying what now seemed apparent because he'd thought it far too much of a coincidence that the Winchesters were still in town. But it_ wasn't_ a coincidence at all. Like they had told him, they were here to hunt the bad guys.

Only, the brothers thought the bad guys were monsters instead of people.

Sam gave a tight grin. "See. I'm right."

Dean shook his head. "Sure, if the FBI guy agrees with you, suddenly he's worth listening to…typical." At his brother's glare, he lifted his hands up in surrender. "Not that I disagree. So, do we check out the places where the two were killed first? Eight years is a long time. The area's probably changed by now."

"Actually I was thinking I'd check out the surviving family. Their address is listed in the phone book."

Dean stiffened when the words sunk in. "You mean, '_we'll_ check out the surviving family,' right?"

Sam sighed. "Look, when we were taking Roy around back, I spotted his truck a few miles up the drive. The locals are looking for two guys together in the Impala. They won't notice me in an old pick-up."

"So, I'll stoop down in the seat. Whatever."

"Dean, we can't just leave Spencer and Penelope here alone. What if Walt shows up early?"

"Oh, come on! If anything, I should get to take the truck into town, and _you_ can stay here on babysitting duty."

"But, _I'm_ the one who found the connection!" Sam snapped. He grimaced, as if stopping himself from shouting. When his voice returned, it was still strained, abet not as loud. "Listen. You stay here, keep at the research, and I'll report back. If I find anything, I can come back and pick you up. If you'll just let me go, we can finish this damn job and be out of here before nightfall."

Dean grew quiet. "You sure that's the only reason you want to go alone?"

Reid felt the tension in the room grow tenfold.

Sam cocked his head. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

For a moment, Reid thought Dean was going to shrug it off, but, instead, he widened his stance, as if preparing for a fight. "You sure this isn't about meeting up with your buddy Ruby? I saw you checking your phone, Sam. She call you?"

Ruby. Reid had heard that name already, but he still had no clue as to who she was. Obviously a point of disagreement between the men—perhaps Sam's girlfriend? Such a relationship would definitely be conflicting with their lifestyles, but it seemed as if there were more to it… Reid's eyes narrowed as he took in Sam's enraged expression. The younger brother was trying to put on a front of mere frustration, but there was more to his twitchy movements and flared nostrils. Shame. Definitely shame.

Reid considered his behavior. The moodswings, the nervousness, could all be explained by the situation itself, but Reid was beginning to wonder if Sam Winchester wasn't also an addict, possibly one in need of a fix. Reid knew exactly what that felt like, and if he was right, Dean had good reason to doubt his brother's reasoning.

"You can't just trust me, can you?" Sam almost growled the words.

Reid could practically feel Penelope's nerves setting on edge as the woman caught his eye, obviously concerned with the brothers' behavior.

Dean looked away. "I don't know."

The words seemed to freeze Sam in place. He just stared at his brother, as if expecting more. When nothing came, he shook his head, smiling bitterly.

"I don't know how much more I can…" His voice drifted. "Screw you, Dean. I'm going out. To do our damn job."

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Dean still standing by the table.

* * *

**End Note:** **Gah, I hate it when Mom and Dad fight, don't you? Alas, this is season 4. **

** I know that the date when the Ruby/Sam blood exchange began is debatable, but I like to think that addiction started rather earlier than we saw on the show. But, I'll neither confirm nor deny that in this story. Also, I feel sorry for our poor team-I keep distracting them with Winchesters. ****Makes it very hard for them to do their job. **More info on the odd kill times (8 years, 2 years, say what?) and the stressor to come.  


**Sorry for the dialogue-heavy chapter. Don't worry; more action to come in the next update. Thanks for reading!**


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